


Two Halves Make the Whole

by alexxphoenix42



Series: A Magic Moment [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit of mystrade, A dolphin penis, Alcohol and drug abuse, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Gay Sex, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Minor Character Death, Potterlock, Romance, Separations, Some people don't think the fluff outweighs the angst, Suffering for Love, Teenlock, The Fluff outweighs the Angst, You will have to be the judge!, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 117,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a few months after John and Sherlock became a "we," there's Sherlock's graduation, a short summer together, then a whole year apart with John still at Hogwarts. Why is life so damn unfair?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has some news that might be good, and might be bad. It depends on John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ttime42 for making such a cute [cover](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10282163) for this story!

***

Sherlock missed sleeping every night curled around John. One of his roommates had definitely snitched, informing the Head of Ravenclaw that John was sneaking in to his bed fully half of the week. As the four idiots who shared his dorm room looked equally guilty, Sherlock presumed it had been a group effort to out them. It was lucky he was one of Professor Mobius’ favourite students. The punishment had been nearly non-existent. He and John had merely had to clean the teacher’s chalkboard by hand for a week, but the door to Ravenclaw had been spelled not to admit John into the dorm again. Professor Mobius had been surprisingly kind about the whole thing, but firm. No boyfriends in your bed at school.

“You know, love, I might feel uncomfortable sleeping in a room with a couple going at it myself. You can’t really blame them.” John reddened above his collar, but Sherlock merely smirked remembering when the Ravenclaws had woken up during a thunderstorm, and caught them in the midst of a special moment.

It was a shame. They’d been so careful until that point, putting up cloaking and illusion spells every night around the four-poster bed before going to sleep. That fateful night though, the Gryffindors had won the end-of-season Quidditch game hopefully ensuring their win for the school cup. A triumphant celebration had kept them up partying until the wee hours. They should have simply stayed in the Gryffindor dorm, but Sherlock had insisted on returning to his room in the Ravenclaw tower. He had a secret final project, spelled plants growing in the dark under his bed that needed tending, and John only grudgingly agreed to make the trek back with him. It had completely slipped their minds to put up any cloaking spells when they’d finally tumbled into bed utterly knackered. John had woken up feeling amorous some time before dawn, and Sherlock had only been too happy to oblige him. The rotten thing of it was, if they’d been caught in the Gryffindor dorm, the other boys would have simply yelled at them to knock it the hell off, thrown pillows at them, and gone back to sleep. The Ravenclaws were a bit more particular about what disturbed their rest it seemed.

“Promise me you won’t do anything to them.” John fixed Sherlock with a stern eye, eraser in hand. “It isn’t right to get back at someone _we_ were disturbing.”

“I promise I won’t do a thing.” Sherlock told him with eyes widened to look more innocent. He didn’t need to do anything to them at this point, when he had already _done_ plenty.

“And reverse anything you’ve already done.” John added wisely turning back to the chalkboard.

“Oh, all right.” Sherlock huffed, caught out.

Sherlock was rather proud of the simple curses he had wrapped around the beds of the other boys in his dorm room. Each night their sheets twisted themselves into knots around their legs, the bed shook slightly as soon as they dropped off, and the mattress was vaguely damp under them each morning when they woke. It was subtle torture designed to make them think their guilty consciences were having the best of them, and something they were unlikely to discuss with anyone. John asked him to remove it though, so Sherlock simply shrugged and agreed. He often deferred to John on matters of correct behavior as the Gryffindor was such an excellent judge of it. Besides, it _would_ look suspicious if all of his dorm mates went truly mad.

It wasn’t the end of the world. They DID have John’s bed in the Gryffindor dorms for sleeping together after all, but Sherlock still had his plants to check on, and an early morning study group that met in the Ravenclaw common room twice a week. The time for NEWTS was fast approaching, and Sherlock had to be serious in his studies if he wished to get decent marks.

“Come on, love, sleeping apart a few nights a week will be good practice . . . for later.” John reminded him. 

Sherlock was a year above John, and due to graduate from Hogwarts in a mere matter of weeks – a fact that neither of them liked to dwell on for very long on. An entire year apart making do with weekend visits whilst John finished his last year of school was almost too horrible to contemplate, and Sherlock kept banishing the idea to the deepest, darkest dungeons of his mind. Of course refusing to face the inevitable wouldn’t make the actual parting any easier, but as it was, Sherlock could avoid the pain for a few more weeks.

Another thing he’d been avoiding, something he hadn’t even shared with John, was the internship he'd applied to before they'd started going out. Herr Eberhard Moser was one of the top Potion Masters in the world, and when two positions had opened up in his workshop for junior assistants, Sherlock had jumped at the chance to apply. If he won a spot, it would be a huge opportunity to learn cutting edge potion work, but would also mean two years living abroad in Germany. Regular travel back to Britain to see John wouldn’t be impossible, but it would be a lot harder. If he didn’t get the position though, the dilemma was moot, so bringing the matter up in advance seemed rather unnecessary. Sherlock tamped it down under all the other things he’d rather not deal with right now, and opened up more space in his mind palace for cataloging how different light conditions changed John’s hair and eye colour, and the range of noises John made in bed when he used his tongue and fingers in clever ways. Still, official news was due to arrive in early June, and it niggled at the back of Sherlock's mind each morning when the mail arrived.

 

***

Sherlock spooned up his breakfast porridge. He frowned at his book on high-level rune spells as the Gryffindors made their usual noise around him, throwing toast at each other between bites of bangers and beans. John’s thigh remained a grounding warmth against his leg in the friendly chaos. Used to his presence, no one paid much attention to the Ravenclaw as he studied through yet another meal at their table. Even some of the year seven Gryffindors had their own noses in books as finals neared, so he wasn’t that rare a creature. Sherlock had taken to eating all his meals with the Gryffindors lately, an arrangement that his nervous dorm mates were probably fine with. Thankfully, John’s ex-girlfriend, Maria Morstan, had hopped houses with her affections as well. What with hanging on the arm of a brawny Hufflepuff named Seamus Braden all the time, her presence at the Gryffindor table was at a welcome minimum. For a countdown to doom, things were going pretty well Sherlock mused as he turned another page, and tried to narrow his focus to a list of prosperity spells.

“Oi, John, pass the marmalade.” Owen called over the table.

John pulled out his wand, and gave it a wave as he stared hard at the pot of preserves. He furrowing up his brow in deep concentration, but the container only wobbled slightly before settling back down. John sighed noisily as it became apparent that the pot had no immediate plans to relocate. All the year six students were practicing hard at nonverbal spell for the upcoming end-of-year exams, and most were finding it a challenging task. Sherlock quirked up the side of his mouth as he surreptitiously flicked his own wand under the table. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the marmalade sailed across the table to land neatly by Owen’s plate.

“Show off,” Tom, one of the twins sat by Sherlock’s other side, said with a grin.

“That was cracking good.” Dom, the other twin, nodded from farther down.

“Ta.” Owen smeared a dollop of the marmalade over his toast before taking a bite.

“What’s the point of great talent if you don’t use it to help the world?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“So modest too.” Teddy reached around Owen to grab the marmalade when the other boy had finished with it. He turned to offer it to Victoire at his other side, but she wrinkled her nose and waved it off. 

“Ugh, I can’t stand that stuff. I’ll take strawberry jam any day over that orange muck.”

“You’ve got all the marmalade you need, eh?” Teddy said, giving a lock of her reddish-blonde hair a tug.

Victoire snorted, and knocked his hand away, but did so good naturedly.

“I wish I could get that sodding spell right.” John blew out a breath.

“Relax, John.” Sherlock looked up. “Nonverbal spells are extra credit for sixth years. It won’t be until next year that it will count against you if you don’t get them right.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s true.” John shrugged. A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of next year, and Sherlock silently kicked himself for bringing it up. John covered over his discomfort with another mouthful of breakfast, and Sherlock reached under the table to give his leg a quick squeeze.

Talk had turned to plans for next weekend in Hogsmeade, the last of the trips to the village before final exams frenzy, when the Owl Post swooped in. Students broke off to grab their descending mail. Sherlock was caught off guard when a large official-looking blue scroll dropped into his lap. He glanced up to see his black owl, Merlin, turning to make his way back from the room.

“Ooh, overseas post!” Victoire's eyes widened at the sight of the scroll. “Something important?”

“It might be,” Sherlock said, buying himself a few more moments as he worked his thumb under the seal, and spread the curled paper flat. Elation rushed over him as he scanned the congratulations on his successful appointment to the potions internship with Herr Moser.

His joy flagged when he glanced up to find John's eyes on him. “Good news, I take it?” John smiled as he opened a small letter of his own.

“Erm.” Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how to answer John. He was spared the onerous task of finding the perfect phrase when Tom peered over his shoulder and let out a cry.

“Merlin’s beard, Sherlock won the potions internship in Germany! You jammy beggar.” Tom slapped him on the back.

“Germany?” John frowned. “Sherlock, you didn’t say anything about an internship in Germany.”

“Didn’t I?” Sherlock released the paper to let it snap back up. “It must have slipped my mind. I applied ages ago.”

“You ARE lucky,” Dom said in hushed tones. “I don’t think anyone from Hogwarts has ever worked with him before.” The twins liked to joke around as well as the next one, but they were top students in Potions in sixth year, and well versed in how important a spot with Herr Moser would be.

“Germany, though. Well. Isn’t that something.” John took a deeper breath, his lips trying to form a smile and failing. “How long is this internship for then?”

“Two years,” Sherlock said with a small wince. He could see the storm brewing behind John's eyes as he struggled to absorb the news.

“TWO YEARS?” John cried, his mouth falling open. “But I thought you had plans to go to Edinburgh after graduation . . .”

“That was only if the internship didn’t work out, this is an amazing opportunity . . .”

Something dark passed over John’s face, and he sat up, pushing the remains of his breakfast away. “I think I left a book for Divinations in my room. Teddy, I’ll catch up with you when class starts.” John grabbed his bag as he rose.

“Yeah, all right, mate,” Teddy said as John stalked angrily from the room.

Sherlock watched John’s retreating back until he disappeared into the hallway. Well, he’d handled that like a right arse he thought miserably.

“Sherlock, you didn’t tell John that you applied to an internship in Europe?” Victoire asked, eyes narrowing.

“It was before John and I . . . were together.” Sherlock shrugged. “Plus the competition was so fierce, I really wasn’t sure I had a chance.”

The Gryffindors glanced uncomfortably back and forth at each other around the hole that John had left at the table. The straight boys had no problem with John and Sherlock dating, but it sometimes slipped their minds that the two were more than friends until they walked in on them snogging, or got swept up into a little domestic like this.

“Sherlock, you pillock.” Victoire sighed. “Go after him.” She jerked her thumb toward the door. “Say you’re sorry, and later, have gifts.” Sherlock could see all the boys around her making quick mental notes of her good advice.

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, and got to his feet to follow the path that John had taken. Sadly, the trail was a few minutes cold, and he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone on evidence alone. He took the chance that John had actually gone back to his room for a book, but when he reached the portrait that guarded the door to the Gryffindor dorms, the fat lady told him John hadn’t been by. “Had a bit of a tiff, dearie?” she called out as Sherlock stormed off without answering.

Sherlock didn’t have time to search out any more likely locations for John before his first class started, and he slipped into Potions only slightly late.

“Five points from Ravenclaw for being tardy,” Professor Leech called out absentmindedly as Sherlock took his seat with a slight blush.

Sadly Sherlock’s mind wasn’t on his work at all during class, and when his Vitamix potion caught fire and exploded in a puff of red smoke, Molly sent him a worried look amidst the laughter from the rest of the students. She sidled up to Sherlock during clean up to talk to him. “Something wrong, Sherlock? You don’t seem yourself today.”

Sherlock meant to give her a curt “Fine, everything’s fine.” But Molly’s kind face stopped him short, and he found himself spilling the truth out to her instead.

“Oh, that is hard.” Molly said, a small line puckered up between her eyebrows. “My dad always forgets to tell my mum things, too. He usually apologizes with flowers.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock grunted, a plan already appearing in his mind of what experimental plant he might gift John with.

“But never mind.” Molly patted his arm. “You probably just need to talk to John to sort things out. He’ll probably show back up once he’s had a chance to cool down.”

Sherlock hoped this was the case as he didn’t see John at lunch, and didn’t have time to hang around the grounds where John had Care of Magical Creatures in the afternoon. His Defense Against the Dark Arts class was on the other side of the school, and this close to exams, he didn’t dare skive off. As it turned out, he didn’t need to spend any more time searching for John. He was waiting in the corridor outside Sherlock’s last class of the day.

"Sherlock."

"John." He couldn’t help the wave of relief that washed over him at seeing that familiar round face. John still looked upset though, and Sherlock stopped awkwardly before him, wracking his mind for the right thing to say. “How . . . how are you?”

“Okay,” John said though that seemed a patent lie as he dropped his eyes, ran the tip of his tongue nervously over his lower lip, and swept a hand back through his hair.

Oh how lovely was John and his little tells. Sherlock’s fingers itched to reach out and touch him, but he restrained himself with some difficulty. They were generally careful not to get too handsy in public. Not everyone enjoyed seeing two blokes all over each other, but they also just enjoyed keeping what was theirs private. Still, whenever they met up after time apart, there was always some small touch in welcome, a hand squeeze, a shoulder bump, a quiet touch on the back. Once they had brushed pinkies while walking beside each other in the hall, and John had reached out and hooked their little fingers together just so. That tiny point of contact had sent a blossom of heat rising through Sherlock’s whole body. 

The movement of their days felt like a circle dance. No matter how often they parted, they were always on their way back to reuniting. Suddenly though, everything had slid woefully off-kilter. John was holding himself so rigidly, it was as if some semi-permeable membrane had sprung up between them and Sherlock could see and hear John, but not break through to touch him.

“Do you have a minute to talk?” John said. Sherlock watched John’s lips move, and he had to think a moment as if he needed to translate John’s words from some foreign language to make sense in English.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock found himself replying automatically as a thin trickle of fear unspooled along his spine.

“Oh, somewhere private . . .” John blew out a breath, and glanced up and down the corridor as if a suggestion would magically appear before him. He obviously hadn’t thought things through completely. This was a good sign. It meant John hadn’t made up his mind to break up with Sherlock just yet.

“The upper level greenhouses,” Sherlock blurted out. This late in the day, few would be tending private projects with dinner looming around the corner.

John nodded and fell in to step with him as them made their way down the hall, and out a side door to the grounds. Sherlock found himself cataloging and memorizing every detail about John as if this were his last chance to do so - his steady rolling gait as he kept up with Sherlock’s longer legs, the way he huffed breath out through his nose, and how he squinted when he looked up and caught the lowering sun in his eyes. John was so beautiful it sometimes hurt to look at him, and Sherlock had to squint his own eyes too, just to take in the full magnificence of him.

It was inevitable Sherlock thought as they pushed their way through the greenhouse door into the warm, humid smells of the plants growing within. John was simply intrinsically _lovable_ he decided, not ordinary, never that, but approachable. He could have nearly any lover he wanted whereas Sherlock was awkward, strange, gawky even. He’d grown three inches just last summer, and his long limbs rarely seemed able to keep up with his racing thoughts. He was forever stumbling over things these days. Why John had put up with him this long was a true mystery.

Sherlock swallowed as John turned to face him. Best get this over with he thought. “John, I understand if you want to leave . . .”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry about how I acted . . .”

They both spoke at once, and broke off looking surprised.

“Let me go first,” John said, licking his lips again. “I need to get this out all at once or I won’t be able to.”

Sherlock nodded mutely as John took a deep breath and said in a rush. “I’m sorry I acted like such a prat earlier. You received a major award, and I didn’t even congratulate you. I should have been supporting you, not being selfish about you going farther away. I am so proud of you. I want you to know that.”

“John, I don’t have to accept the position. I could still go to Edinburgh.” Sherlock spoke past the lump in his throat. A job at a small apothecary in Scotland was nothing next to the chance to work with someone of Herr Moser’s caliber, but for John . . .

“What? Are you mental?” John’s eyes flew open wide. “I was talking with Victoire, and she told me what a big deal this Herr Moser bloke is. It will be okay, yeah? I mean we were going to be apart next year anyway. This just means we’ll be traveling by portkeys instead of simply apparating to be together, but we’ll make it work.” John paused to draw in a breath, his eyes searching Sherlock’s. “Love, say something.”

“I love you,” Sherlock said just before he buried his face in John’s neck. John shifted, and then their mouths were on each other, fingers sliding into hair and they were kissing and kissing like they’d just invented it and wanted to make sure they’d gotten the hang of it.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock breathed when they finally broke apart, resting foreheads together. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the internship. I really didn’t expect to get it, and just thinking about being apart from you made my skin hurt. I kept putting off dealing with it.”

“I know. I know. We’ve still got the whole summer though.” John pulled back to drop a kiss to his nose. “We’ve two glorious months we can spend together.” He smiled. “Oh, but when do you have to be there in . . .” John’s smile faltered.

“Heidelberg.” Sherlock filled in the blank. “I don’t have to be in Heidelberg until September.”

“Oh, good.” John sighed. “The plans are still on then.”

“Of course they’re still on,” Sherlock said. “I’d tell them I had to come later if the internship had started during the summer.”

They’d already elaborately plotted out their break together. They’d be at the Watsons’ home the first half of the summer to celebrate John’s birthday in July, and help out John’s mum at her estate agency. John had already promised he’d answer the office phones whilst the secretary was on holiday, and Sherlock was greatly looking forward to tagging along and exploring Muggle Hertfordshire.

The first of August would see them at Sherlock’s Grand-mère’s estate outside Bordeaux for _her_ annual birthday gathering. Since his Grand-mère was the only one of his relatives he truly liked, he was looking forward to introducing John to her. After that, he hoped to spirit John off to the holiday villa in Greece, a place that remained near and dear to his heart, but John had made noises about wanted to see the Holmes family estate in Sussex as well. It seemed like a small forever with summer rolling out before them, but Sherlock knew September loomed in the queue just the same.

John drew Sherlock close again, winding his arms around him. “Love, what is it? God, you’re shaking.” John pulled back to search Sherlock’s face.

The adrenaline that had shot through him as he braced for John’s inevitable break-up had ebbed away leaving him weak-kneed and quite undone. “John, I’m sorry . . . it’s just, I thought you were breaking up with me.”

“What?! God. Oh, Sherlock.” John touched his face before pulling him back into a fierce hug. “Oh, no, you big git. You aren’t getting rid of me that easily.”

They kissed madly again until John’s stomach rumbled. “Oh, ugh. I’m starving,” John said. “I skipped lunch to fly a spin around the Quidditch pitch. Time on a broom helps me think.”

“I didn’t feel much like lunch either.” Sherlock admitted.

“Come on, let’s grab a quick early dinner. I don’t much fancy explaining things to the whole crew just now.”

“I agree.” Sherlock smiled shyly. “And maybe an early bed time tonight?”

“Oh, isn’t this a night you stay at Ravenclaw? Don’t you have a study group on for tomorrow?”

“I think I could miss one, and not fail my exams.” 

“What are we waiting for?” John found Sherlock’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Dinner, now.” He tugged the taller boy back toward the castle.

“Dinner.” Sherlock agreed with a smile as he followed, but he was thinking more about a chance to lick John's salty skin later, and less about casseroles, and hot veg.

***


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last few weeks of school are simply crazy as exams drive everyone a bit mental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note - I know in the books, the students at Hogwarts only seem to wear robes with perhaps long underwear underneath, while in the movies they have on regular school uniforms of button-up shirts, and trousers and skirts with robes over top. I’m going with the movie version for dressing everyone. Expect a mix of Muggle and Magical clothing here.

***

People went slightly barmy with studying for final exams. Meditating, buying good luck charms, using potions to stave off sleep, or simply crying primal screams from the dorm windows until a teacher came and shut things down were de rigueur as students tried to cram that last bit of knowledge into their aching heads.

John sat back from the table in the Gryffindor common room, and scrubbed at his eyes. “Ugh. I am never going to remember all the rules for these arithmancy spells.” 

“Steady on, mate.” Tom glanced over. He had a quill stuck behind each ear. “At least you’ve got that great brain of a boyfriend to help you.” 

“Well, I would if he weren’t hip-deep in studying for his NEWTS. I’ve hardly seen him all week.” John sighed. “I don’t know how I’m going to handle those next year. This year's exams are bad enough.”

“I know.” Teddy groaned across the table. “I think this year’s transfiguration practicals are going to KILL me.” His hair had gone a mad jumble of black and white today, something like a zebra pattern.

“YOU? At least you got the last assignment right,” Dom complained. “I was able to turn that cushion into a chicken, but then I couldn’t get it to go back again. My cushion had legs and kept running about.” He twirled his finger about in a circle, and everyone chuckled.

“Shhhhh!” The group of older students at the next table hissed. Everyone apologized before sinking further into their seats. 

“Damn seventh years,” Tom muttered under his breath.

Several minutes of a clock ticking, the occasional page turning, and someone sniffling passed before Teddy slammed his textbook closed with a whump. “That is IT. My brain’s gone mush.” 

“Oi, WANKER keep it down!” One of the seventh years growled. He chucked a wadded-up paper ball that bounced off Teddy’s skull. “Some of us want to graduate this year, all right?”

“Sorry,” Teddy called over. Turning back to the table, he lowered his voice. “All right, lads, time for a study break.”

“Ah, Teddy, come on. We’ve got to learn this stuff.” John motioned toward his stack of scrolls with a frown. 

“Yeah, but we need to practice for Transfiguration and Defense against the Dark Arts too. It’s lovely out. There’s no reason we couldn’t work on things out by the lake! Come on we’ll pack lunch, and kill two birds with one stone. Plus . . . lake.” Teddy waved toward the window, and everyone’s heads swiveled like sunflowers toward the warm light taunting them from outside.

“Let’s do it.” Tom agreed, and it was settled. 

They stopped long enough to wake Owen who had fallen asleep in a squashy armchair with a scroll dropped over his face, then headed by the kitchens to beg food from the house elves. John chewed at his lip wondering if there was time to pop his head in at the library and see if Sherlock was about and wanted to come along, but he thankfully saved him the trouble. They bumped into him in the hall on their way toward the front entrance.

“John.” Sherlock looked up, surprised, pulling his nose from the textbook in his hand. 

“Hiya.” John grinned, patting his arm. He couldn’t help himself from touching Sherlock even if it was just a brief thing.

“Ah, you’re off for a picnic,” Sherlock said, scanning over the baskets in the boys’ hands, and the smiles over their faces. Good humor was a very rare commodity around the school the week before exams. 

“Picnic AND study session.” Teddy puffed out his chest. “We might not be as dedicated as the Ravenclaws, but we aren’t just bunking off. Hey, why don’t you join us? We’ve room for one more.” 

“Well, I need to . . .” Sherlock said, his eyes pulling back to John’s face. 

“Oh, come on,” John urged. “You probably haven’t eaten all day, and you can practice your spellwork too. We can be guinea pigs for your Year Seven magnificence.” 

“Guinea . . . what?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 

“Never mind,” John said, reaching out to tug the edge of Sherlock’s sleeve. “Come with us. I’ve hardly seen you at all lately.” 

Sherlock seemed to soften visibly at that. “All right. I think I can fit it in.”

“Brilliant.” John grinned. 

“All right you lot, let’s pick up the pace,” Teddy said, shifting his basket to his other hand. “I don’t fancy spending any more time stuck inside than I need to.”

Sherlock fell in beside John as the group continued on their journey toward the promised land of “not inside the school.”

“Yeah, you two can make cow eyes at each other outside.” Dom winked. 

“Aw, shut it, you!” John growled. “I saw you chatting up that black-haired Hufflepuff girl yesterday by the potions room.” 

“Oh reeeaaaally?” Tom looked back at his brother with an eyebrow raised. “What, Samantha?”

Colour had risen over Dom’s face. “We were just talking,” he mumbled saved from adding anything more as they reached the heavy doors. The group whooped at finally escaping the dark halls for the honeyed sunshine outside.

***

John lay sprawled on the grass, breathing in deeply, enjoying the smell of green things reawakened. Teddy had the best ideas he thought as he bit into a jam biscuit. He glanced toward the lake, and chuckled at the wand duel Teddy and Owen were enjoying. Owen had just zinged in a hit that left Teddy with a large purple horn spiraling out of his forehead. Teddy frowned a bit in concentration, and the horn simply shrank away.

“Bloody hell - that’s not fair!” Owen yelled. “Damn metamorphmagus!”

“All’s fair in love and war, mate!” Teddy cried, shooting off a curse that Owen neatly dodged. Hard to beat a Keeper for quick reflexes John thought. Of course with Teddy being a Seeker, they were pretty well matched.

John sat up, moving closer to Sherlock beside him, and let their shoulders brush. His boyfriend was busy lecturing Dom on the yellow mouse he had just transfigured from a banana, but he glanced over at John’s touch, bumping his shoulder in return.

“You see Dom,” Sherlock continued, “if you’d gone more to the side when you waved your wand, you wouldn’t have hold-over characteristics. Watch.” Sherlock moved his wand with a subtle twist and the yellow mouse morphed into a green snake. It instantly slithered off, heading for the tall grass by the lake.

“Oh damn, don’t let it get away!” Tom cried, jumping up to follow after. “I wanted that banana!”

“Relax,” Sherlock said, flicking his wand to send the snake rising into the air. It turned obligingly back into a banana as it landed gently in Dom’s lap.

“Ta!” Tom said, leaning down to grab the fruit. He peeled it open to take a healthy bite and smiled. “Oh, well done, mate! 

“Ugh. I don’t know if I’d want to eat a banana that was just a snake.” John wrinkled his nose. 

“Why not?” Dom asked around his mouthful. “Tastes fine.” 

“Some people do eat snake meat, you know,” Sherlock added. 

“Really? Well, I suppose . . .” John startled when a scream that ended in a splash pulled their eyes back toward the lake.

Teddy bent over laughing as a furious Owen struggled to stand upright in the shallows. Finally managing to gain his feet, Owen waved his wand to fling a spout of cold water Teddy’s way. Teddy ducked, but the water followed his movement, crashing over him. It was Owen’s turn to laugh as Teddy sputtered, wiping wet hair out of his eyes.

“Oh you’re in for it now!” Teddy cried stripping off his wet things. The boys cheered as they watched Teddy transforming into something between a human and a dolphin. His skin turned a sleek grey as he charged toward the lake, his legs morphing into a tail as he jumped to dive into the water.

“Damn.” John grinned shaking his head in awe. 

“Would you look at that,” Dom said as they watched, transfixed. It was always a treat to catch a metamorphmagus in action.

Owen waded toward the bank, valiantly trying to escape his fate, when a hand snaked up, dragging him under the surface of lake. He shrieked once, splashing wildly, before the water closed seamlessly over his head.

“Come on, mates!” Tom cried, leaping to his feet to tug off his school robe. “We’re not letting them have all the fun, are we?”

Dom and John laughed and stood to follow. They made short work tossing away their robes to attack the fastenings on their shirts and trousers next. Sherlock, still fully clothed, watching the proceedings with an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh come on, Sherlock, live a little,” Tom said kicking off his shoes to shimmy out of his trousers. 

“Yeah, please,” John added, pulling his vest over his head.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the sight of John shucking his layers, obviously deciding this ridiculous lake business had some merit to it. “All right, if I must.” He sighed, but a smiled tugged at his lips as he shrugged out of his own things.

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock dropped his clothes to reveal his lovely, long pale limbs nearly glowing in the bright afternoon light. He had on the sexiest black boxer briefs imaginable, and John mourned anew the last few days that they’d been apart. He licked his lips and willed himself to behave in front of his friends. Dom and Tom were already down to their y-fronts, and yelling their way into the lake. Once Sherlock had stepped fully out of his trousers, John grinned, and grabbed his arm to pull him after the others. They both gasped as they plunged into the water. Despite the warmth of the day, the lake was quite icy. 

They cried out as Tom and Dom welcomed them with a freezing splash. Sherlock was a gorgeous thing, John thought even as he shivered beside him. Wet dark curls hung heavy around his head, and he shook them out of eyes with a laugh to scoop a particularly nice handful of water to fling over the twins. They yelped, and the war was on. The water remained cold, but they warmed soon enough as they leapt about, laughing, and dashing as much of the lake as they could on each other. 

John turned to watch Owen perched on Teddy’s back as they bounced over the deeper waters, the ride clearly a gift for nearly drowning him earlier. His inattention was rewarded with a deluge of water over the back of his neck as the other three ganged up on him.

“MERLIN, leave off!” he cried, turning to retaliate with a small tidal wave of his own.

John thought about asking Teddy for a lift later as he and Owen finally joined them, but a sharp giggle from some nearby bushes froze the words in his throat. They all turned in horror as a group of snickering girls moved out of the greenery. It looked to be some younger Gryffindor and Ravenclaw girls, but John only knew Victoire out of the bunch. 

“Oooh, look at the ickle fishies! We should take a picture for the whole school.” A saucy-looking blonde girl in front giggled.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Tom said.

“Are you meant to be out here?” Teddy called, his tail morphing to legs to stand upright in the water. 

John sized up their sad, half-naked group. They had little to hand, thigh-deep in water wearing nothing more than clinging, soaked pants except for Owen in his wet shirt and trousers, and Teddy in his odd part-dolphin state.

“We’ve as much right as you to be here.” A round brunette called back, raising her chin. “What are you meant to be anyway?” She asked, peering closer at Teddy’s grey hairless skin.

“Oh, come on, let’s just go,” Victoire said, tugging on the blonde’s arm. 

“What, and miss the show?” The blonde girl laughed, refusing to be budged.

Owen at least had his wand on him. He worked it out of his sodden sleeve, and had probably intended to spirit some of their clothes from the bank to them when he called out “ _Accio_ clothes.” What actually occurred though was that the soaked pants on the four shivering boys ripped themselves away from their bodies to soar toward Owen, smacking wetly as they landed against his front.

“AAAAAaaah”

“Oh no, Oooweeeen!” 

“You ARSE!”

“MERLIN!”

“Oh bugger, sorry!” Owen looked ill as the nude boys groaned and dropped lower in the cold water to preserve their modesty. The girls fairly shrieked with laughter.

Sherlock fixed the interlopers with a steely-eye, and looking as regal as one could while caught starkers in a freezing lake, threw his shoulders back to challenge them. “It’s actually not true that you are meant to be out here. Students of your year are not allowed by the lake without a chaperone. What happened in fact is that you got permission from Professor Pinworthy to use her classroom for a study group for charms. I’m sure she’d be very interested in hearing how you sneaked out the side door to come down to the lake on her watch.”

Even in his teeth-chattering state, John was pleased to see the look of concern that settled over the girls’ faces. Their expressions soon shifted to something like terror though. As one, the girls screamed, and turned to crash back into woods leaving only Victoire rooted in place staring wide-eyed, a hand pressed to her mouth.

John glanced quickly about for the source of the panic, and was somewhat alarmed himself to find that Teddy’s sleek skin had parted at his crotch, allowing a rather large, pinkish erection in a perfect s- shape to curve up above the water. 

“MERLIN’S BALLSACK, put that thing away Teddy!” Tom cried.

A look of horror flashed over Teddy’s face as a full realization of the situation hit him. He quickly morphed back into full tail, flipping over to escape into the deeper water. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, guys,” Victoire said, flapping a hand. “Ignore them, they’re idiots." She motioned toward the forest where the giggling horde had vanished. "Tell Teddy, tell him . . .” Victoire simply waved when she couldn’t think of what to say, and pivoted on her foot to escape into the bushes after her friends.

The boys eventually waded out of the water to redress, even coaxing Teddy to stop sulking in the lake and join them. Sherlock produced a brisk warm breeze from his wand that he directed over them, putting their clothes and hair back to dry. 

“Bloody hell, I can never look at Victoire again.” Teddy groaned, burying his face in his hands. He was once more in full human form, but his hair had stayed an ashen grey. 

“Cheer up, mate.” Owen said, slapping him on the back. “If anything, she looked a bit impressed.”

Teddy remained miserable though until they had another battle, this time throwing mud and handfuls of grass at each other until everyone was feeling quite cheerful again.

***

They were laughing, disheveled but dry, as they finally stumbled back into the school. Already the great lake debacle was starting to seem more funny than disturbing with a bit of distance.

“Did you see the look on that one’s face, the blonde?” Tom chuckled. “They got more than they bargained for, eh mate? Can’t stand the power of the Great Dolphin Dick.” 

“More like the Elder Wand,” Dom said, elbowing him.

“Ruler of them all.” Owen added with a grin.

“Ah, shut it.” Teddy blushed, but laughed along with them. 

“If they tell anyone about finding us in the lake, they’re going to get in trouble for skivving off out there.” Sherlock pointed out pragmatically. 

“I don’t know, that was pretty dramatic.” John shrugged. “Kind of HARD to forget about it.”

Everyone groaned in response.

“Well, well, well. Out playing in the mud with your little friends instead of studying for exams? THAT won’t get you top marks on the NEWTS.” The voice of Alastaire, a poncy Slytherin and Sherlock’s cousin cut sharply across their banter. Unfortunately, he, along with three block-headed accomplices from Slytherin, stood blocking the corridor in the exact direction they needed to go. Alastaire raked his eyes over the lot of them, sneering as his gaze landed on John. John rubbed at his cheek suddenly uncomfortably aware of some mud drying there.

“At least I won’t have to stoop to cheating to get good scores on exams.” Sherlock sniffed, pushing in front of John to better sneer at his cousin.

“I’ve never had to cheat to get top marks.” Alastaire bristled. 

“No? Well, I suppose having a teacher in your back pocket helps. Or maybe you’re in her back pocket . . .” Sherlock drawled.

“How dare you . . .” Alastaire’s eyes flashed fire, and his cronies reached for their wands as John shoved his way into the middle of things. 

“All right, that’s enough. I’m sure we’ve all got important things we need to be doing elsewhere.” John might be covered in mud, but he was still a prefect, and he meant to use his power well. “I suggest we all get back to them.” John raised an eyebrow archly at the Slytherins.

“Gladly,” Alastaire said with a toss of his head. “Come on, mates, there’s too much riff raff in this corner of the castle.” 

“Hey, who are you calling ‘riff raff?’” Tom growled, but John just shook his head, and placed a restraining hand to Tom’s chest. 

Alastaire and his goons smirked at them as they glided by, but thankfully headed off without another word. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said reaching up to remove a bit of duckweed from John’s hair as the Slytherins moved out of earshot. “That lot wouldn’t bother you so much if I weren’t here.”

“Aw, stuff it, Sherlock. It’s not your fault. Those gits have been giving us grief since we beat them at Quidditch.” Teddy shrugged. “Beat them fair and square I might add.”

“I hope we get the house cup this year. I would love to see their green faces when the red and gold banners roll out over the great hall.” Dom sighed. “Sorry Sherlock, no offense,” He added glancing back at the Ravenclaw.

“He’s an unofficial Gryffindor now anyway, aren’t you, mate?” Tom grinned as he patted Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“That’s right,” Sherlock agreed smiling slightly as his eyes slid to John.

John returned his smile. “Well, come on you lot, I wasn’t lying. If we want to pass our exams, we DO have things to get to.”

There was more groaning and another joke about the motivational power of dolphin erections as they continued on. Sherlock dropped back, catching John’s arm as they reached the spot that divided the route to the Gryffindor dorms, and the Ravenclaw tower.

“John, I’m sorry, I have to get back . . .” 

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for coming along with us though. Enjoyed it.” 

“Me too.” 

“I’ll see you at dinner then?” John asked.

A cloud passed over Sherlock’s face. “I’m not sure I can make dinner tonight. I’ve got to check on some potions brewing. My internship is still dependant on my getting top marks in potions class last quarter.”

“All right. See you at bedtime?” John pushed hopefully. 

“Of course. I’ll see you then.” Sherlock nodded, fingers crossed behind his back.

“Bye, love.” John said, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. He’d meant it to be a quick farewell peck, but Sherlock snaked his arms around John, and dragged him close, his mouth moving over John’s in a sudden passion. John groaned and melted into him. It was quite some several minutes later before a laugh, and a “Merlin, can you two get a room!” from a couple of passing Hufflepuffs broke them apart. 

John laughed and blushed. “Sorry.” He called out to their retreating backs. “Hey,” he said looking back to Sherlock, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. “It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Go use that great Ravenclaw brain, and get the highest scores Hogwarts has ever seen!” 

“John, I hate being so busy I can’t see you.” 

“I know, me too. But don’t worry, it’ll be summer soon enough, and we’ll have all day together, for weeks and weeks!” 

“I can’t wait.” Sherlock looked so wistful that John had to kiss the tip of his nose.

“Go on, my genius boy. I’ll see you later.” 

“Later.” Sherlock promised, pressing a last peck to John’s cheek before swanning off in a swirl of his long robe. John sighed, and watched him until he turned a corner before heading off himself.

***

Sadly, John didn’t see Sherlock that night. The Ravenclaw sent a quick word that he was busy yet again. John was studying with Teddy and Owen, sprawled in armchairs in the Gryffindor common room when a house elf appeared by his side. Wrapped primly in a Hogwarts tea cozy, it bowed and presented John with a folded bit of paper. John thanked it before it nodded and disapparated away. He unfolded the note to read,

 _John, so sorry. I have a final project for potions that needs babysitting tonight. I’ll have to see you tomorrow.  
Love, Sherlock _

John sighed, disappointed to miss yet another night with him, but thrilled to see the word “love” in Sherlock's slanted handwriting just the same. 

“What’s all that then? Aren’t you posh getting hand-delivered notes?” Teddy asked leaning over his shoulder to see the note as John stuffed it into his charms book. “Not bad news I hope.”

“Just a bit.” John shrugged. “Sherlock is busy again. I won’t see him until tomorrow.”

“Cheer up, mate. It’ll be summer break soon, and you two can shag each other rotten then.” Teddy smirked.

“Oh, shut it.” John sighed.

“Well, at least things have been quieter in the room,” Owen said from the other chair. “We can use all the sleep we can get this week.”

“Wot?” John sat up straighter. “But we put up wards, there shouldn’t have been any noise . . . or anything . . ..” He trailed off looking back and forth between his friends’ faces. 

Teddy looked uncomfortable. His hair had turned an odd orange colour. “Well, someone must have gone to use the loo, and forgot to put the spells back up.” 

“Oh God.” John blushed. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” John was quickly sifting through his memories for any loud encounters that might have happened after someone made a trip to the toilets. There was just too much material to pin any one event down. “Was it just the once?” He cringed as he asked. 

“More like twice.” Owen said. 

“No, three.” Teddy added.

“THREE?” John squeaked louder than he mean to.

“Shhhhhh.” The older students at the study tables glared over at them. 

“I must have slept through one.” Owen said thoughtfully.

“Jesus.” John dropped his hot face into his palms. “I am so sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

“Don’t sweat it, Johnny, me boy. We single lads have to get our kicks where we can, yeah?” Teddy grinned.

“Okay, stop. I don’t want to hear another word from you perverts.” John groaned.

“Hey, we’re not the one yelling ‘Who’s my good kitty?’ in the middle of the night.” Teddy mocked in a funny high-pitched voice. He caught Owen’s eye and they both snickered.

“SHHHHHHH!” 

“Fine. I’m done.” John said, rising to stomp off. He didn't have a destination in mind as he left the dorm until the portrait door closed behind him. The painted fat lady peered at him as it clicked shut. "You missed a spot, dearie." She said pointing to the back of her neck. "Just there." When John realized he still had a bit of mud on him, he decided it was a perfect time for a wash in the prefects’ bathroom. Thankfully everyone was busy with studying, and he had the room to himself. Filling up the tub with a stream of bouncing blue bubbles, and cherry-scented rainbow foam lightened his black mood considerably.

When he slunk back into the dorm room, pink and well-scrubbed just before lights out, Tom chucked a pillow at him. “Hey, John, don’t listen to these tossers. You two only left the wards down one night for a few minutes once. They’re just taking the piss.”

“Yeah, we’re really light sleepers.” Dom agreed. “If you and your man were shaking the walls, we’d have been up for the fun too.”

Teddy and Owen looked chagrined. “Sorry mate, we were just having a bit of fun,” Owen said. “Winding you up.”

“Yeah, I heard you call Sherlock ‘good kitty’ in the halls once.” Teddy said looking at his feet. “Sorry.” 

“That was PRIVATE.” John glared at him.

“Sorry.” Teddy shrugged finally glancing up. “The rest of us don’t have nearly as interesting a love life as you do. We have to live vicariously, yeah?”

“Yeah well,” John jabbed a finger toward Teddy. "You know where you can . . ."

“Hey, hey, it’s a mad time, right?” Dom cut in. “Exams? Everyone on edge? Let’s just drop it and get some sleep.”

“Fine.” John and Teddy huffed at the same time. Owen nodded, and everyone climbed under their blankets to stew in peace. 

John flung an arm out over the cool sheets where a warm, tall, lanky genius sometimes curled. With exams on, his love life was quickly becoming more of a theoretical thing over an actual occurrence. He sighed, and willed himself to sleep. Tomorrow looked to be another busy day.

***

Tensions that had risen during prep time only worsened as exam week proper rolled in. Students walked the halls like zombies mumbling under their breath, fingers twitching at phantom wands as they practiced a last tricky bit of a spell on their way to class. Teachers and prefects alike were on high alert watching for any casualties from magic gone wrong that needed emergency transport to the infirmary. The ghosts of the castle had taken to hiding away from all the fuss and bother, except for Peeves the poltergeist of course. He seemed to have made it his sacred duty to jump out and scare the life out of any first years, already at wits end, walking the corridors. Madame Comfrey had taken to passing out calming tonic at meal times to any who requested it. The entire school felt like a wave of nervous energy ready to burst over the thin dam holding it in place.

John and Sherlock had agreed to meet at lunch time and let the rest of their days go, things were so hectic. Tom and Dom banged in to join them, and they’d moaned together about Professor Pinworthy’s charms test over bowls of stew. Sherlock had his nose stuck in a textbook as usual, but John held his hand under the table, and insisted he ate both a roll and an apple while he studied. All too soon, it was time to say good-bye again. John almost couldn’t stand it. He grabbed Sherlock on their way out the door, steering him to a nook behind a suit of armour a few paces down the hall. 

“Wha . . .” Sherlock asked when John cut him off, sealing his mouth over his. Sherlock didn’t need any more encouragement to drop his book bag and wind his arms around John, pulling him close. 

“Miss you.” John mumbled against his lips. God, Sherlock smelled delicious. John wanted to climb inside his clothes to press closer to his skin. Stopping himself from working his robe open, he plunged his fingers into the taller boy’s dark curls instead, and dived back in for another drugging kiss.

“Miss you too.” Sherlock muttered when John moved on to mouth down the column of his neck. “It’s almost done, John, almost over.”

“What do you have on next?” John asked working his way back up to gnaw under Sherlock’s jaw. 

“Arithmancy exam. All afternoon.” Sherlock sighed, eyes closed as he tipped his head back to give John better access. “Have to go . . . few minutes.”

“Bollocks.” John said returning to capture his lips with his own. Heat seared through John as Sherlock made a sort of squeak and dropped a hand to his arse, dragging him even closer. 

Although most of him was busy drowning in Sherlock, a small bit of sanity trickled back through John’s brain after several minutes of pure bliss. As much as he didn’t want to, he broke contact, pulling back. “Oi, you. Arithmancy.” 

Sherlock simply followed after him. “Don’t care.” He said, swooping in to reclaim John’s mouth.

John tumbled helplessly in a sea of soft lips and roving hands, but getting off in a hallway at school was no way to keep his prefect badge, or help either of them through their exams. 

“Arithmancy.” John said more firmly stepping back as he grabbed Sherlock’s upper arms to keep him at bay. 

“Arithmancy, right.” Sherlock sighed finally agreeing to stop. He opened his eyes to pupils gone huge, his hair a mad riot around his face as he struggled to draw a good breath. “I hate this. Hate not seeing you.” 

“I know. Me too, love. Soon though, it will all be over. Hey, I got the permission letter back signed from my mum this morning. It’s all official – I can stay on campus for your graduation.” 

“Good.” Sherlock said tugging him back for a last hug, burying his face in John’s hair. “It will be good to have you there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” John said holding him close.

“Okay. Going now.” Sherlock said not moving.

“Okay.” John said not moving either.

“Really going this time. Good-bye, John.” Sherlock dropped a kiss to the top of his head.

“No, let’s not say _good-bye._ ” John insisted, his voice muffled against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just a _see you later,_ okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock nodded “See you later.” Giving John a final hard squeeze, he released him, bending to scoop up his bag. Throwing it over his shoulder, he strode off determinedly down the hallway, the stream of traffic parting around him.

John watched the dark curls bobbing a few inches above the rest of the heads in the hallway until they disappeared. He sighed, and straightened his robe before stepping into the crowd himself, turning to run smack into someone. John grabbed their arm to keep them from toppling over. A red-blonde ponytail whipped over his vision. It was none other than Victoire. 

“Vic, sorry.” John said wincing as he righted her. “I am such an idiot.”

“Naw, you’re good," she said, catching her breath. 

“Were you at lunch?” 

“Yeah, just done.”

“Didn’t see you in there." John titled his head back toward the Great Hall. "Haven’t seen much of you at all lately.” 

Victoire shrugged. She didn’t eat all her meals with the guys, but they’d generally see her at a breakfast or lunch several times a week. She had a number of friends she kept up with. It looked like she’d passed their lot by recently though. 

“You know, nobody blames you about the lake thing.” John smiled at her kindly. 

“Oh, I know. Just been busy,” Victoire said, her mouth making a little half twitch upwards.

“Don’t I know it!” John sighed. “Where are you running off to?”

“Defense against the Dark Arts – practical test today.” Victoire rolled her eyes. “I hope I’m ready.”

“No worries, I’m sure you are,” John said. “I’m off that way to the library, I’ll walk with you.” 

“Ta.” Victoire smiled, and they fell into step navigating their way around the students all dashing off to their next obligation.

“So, what are you doing for the summer? Big plans?” She asked.

“Sort of. Sherlock’s coming home to mine for a few weeks, then I’m off to his place for the rest. Or places rather. They own a couple of houses.” John suddenly felt a little embarrassed talking about Sherlock’s posh family. The wealth his people had still seemed more odd to him than their being many-generations magical. “What about you?”

“Couple of trips planned.” Victoire said. “We always go to my Gran’s for awhile, and then we’ve got a trip to France to visit family there.” 

“Oh, me too. I mean we’ll be visiting Sherlock’s grandmother in France for her birthday party.”

“C’est magnifique.” Victoire smiled. “Est-ce votre premier voyage?”

“Ugh. My French is awful.” John shuddered. “I’m sure I’ll be a right tit trying to speak it.”

“You can always do a translation spell while you’re there, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that. I’ll look into it. Thanks Vic.”

“Anytime. So what are you two doing next year with Sherlock taking the internship in Germany?”

“Trying not to think about it really.” John sighed. “I mean we already knew a year apart will be crap. Now we’ll just have to work harder to get together, weekends and hols and whatnot.”

“I just can’t image you two apart now.” Victoire smiled. 

“Me either.”

Oh, look. This is me.” She said nodding to the corridor to the right. “Wish me luck on DDA!”

“Luck.” John said. “Though you don’t really need any – you’re a natural.” 

“Thanks John, see ya round!” With a bounce of her ponytail, she was off.

“Bye, Vic.” John waved her on with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, I had a long hiatus going on this fic - those in the Sherlock fandom know all about those, riiiiight? Doesn't mean we like 'em though. Good news, the hiatus on THIS fic is now over, and I'll be working on updating things more regularly.
> 
> ***  
> Many thanks to tiniestjohn for the artwork she made for this chapter . . .  
> [Kissing in the hallway](http://alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com/post/143737305563/alexxphoenix42-many-many-thanks-to-tiniestjohn)
> 
> ***
> 
> If you like what you're reading, please drop me a note! Your comments are like owl post brightening the gloomiest of Mondays.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of work, graduation day is finally upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many heartfelt thanks to two fabulous folks who have agreed to beta for me, and helped pull this chapter together. All the fizzing whizzbees, jelly slugs, and chocolate frogs I can carry for otp221b, and the-navel-treatment!

***

“Oi, wanker, that one's mine,” Owen called over as Teddy made to pitch a stack of magazines into his open trunk. 

The Gryffindor tower was complete and utter chaos as students packed, and readied for summer break. Blaring music and random explosions had been going off throughout the dorms all morning as everyone giddily celebrated the end of exams.

“I thought these were all mine,” Teddy said, glancing at the top of the pile. “Oh, no. You’re right, mate. I don’t take _Witch Weekly.”_ He passed the journal over with a smirk as the photo of Hermione Granger-Weasely folded her arms and dropped a brisk nod from her place on the cover. “I should have KNOWN anything with the great Hermione on it would be yours.”

“Not a word, you lot,” Owen warned, accepting the magazine to slide it carefully inside his suitcase, stacking things over it to keep it safe.

Tom caught Dom’s eye and winked. The twins looked ready to start on Owen for his crush on the famous witch when John jumped in.

“So, who’s happy to not look at another quill for two months?” John asked brightly, looking about.

“Speak for yourself.” Dom flicked his wand a bit too forcefully, sending a stack of folded clothes careening into his trunk. “We’ll be working in our dad’s shop all summer, and he sells plenty of _quills.”_

“Yeah, if you need any inks, quills, or fine stationery, Middleston Quill Shop is your place to be,” Tom agreed sourly.

“At least you won’t be answering phones in your mum’s estate office,” John sighed.

“Wait, what’s a phone again?” Tom asked.

“Take Muggle studies next year, mate!” Owen shook his head.

“It’s like a floo network, only just for your voice,” John said, sharing a look with Owen. As much as those who were Muggle-born tried to fit into the Magical world, there was always a bit of a knowledge gap between the two.

“So what do you have planned, Owen?” Dom asked.

“I _plan_ to be sleeping late,” Owen said, “though I’m sure if my Da has his way, I’ll be working around the farm at arse early o’clock like as not.”

“Baaaaaa.” Teddy bleated. It was a source of endless amusement to the other boys that Owen’s father owned a sheep farm.

“So, tosser, what’s on for you then?” Owen shot back with a grin. “Big plans?”

“No, not really, though I’m sure my Nan has a schedule waiting for me.” Teddy waved a hand about as his voice went all posh and wavery. "Places to go, people to see." 

Teddy, who lived with his grandmother, was independently wealthy, something they all worked not to fault him for. Still, John thought, Teddy had lost both his mother and father in the Battle of Hogwarts. John had only lost his father in the war. A fresh wave of gratitude swept over him that he still had his mum with him - even if it did mean three weeks working at Uptown Realty that summer.

“So, John where’s that fit boyfriend of yours? We didn’t scare him off, did we?” Tom asked John, pulling him back to the conversation.

“Naw, he’s cleaning up his workbench in the potions dungeon. We've two more days here for graduation before we clear out for good.” John said bending over to chase something that had rolled under his bed.

“Wow, that was something – him winning that internship with Herr Moser.” Dom whistled.

“What can I say, he’s a genius.” John tried to smile as he straightened back up with a bottle of shampoo in his hand, but the expression fell somewhat flat.

“So he’s in Germany all next year.” Tom continued. “You know there’s a Wizarding school not too far from Heidelberg you could always transfer to, Schwarzwald-Institut, if you wanted to be closer.”

“To hell with that!” Teddy’s head popped up. “John’s our best beater! The team would FOLD without him next year!” He turned pleading eyes John’s way. “Johnny, tell me it’s not true!”

“Yeah, the rest of us are utter crap.” Owen grumbled, sitting on his case to better shut it.

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Teddy said, frowning.

“Teddy, bruv, calm yourself.” John held both his palms up. “No one is transferring to Schwarz-whatsit. You lot won’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Teddy sighed.

John walked his mates down to the outer doors, and after promising Teddy AGAIN that yes, he would practice his flying over the summer, waved good-bye. He watched them for a moment as they laughed and shoved at each other on their way to the carriages to the train station. He felt a small pang at not joining them, but a wide grin stole over his face as a joy bubbled up to replace it. He had a certain Ravenclaw to find, and he lost no more time moping about to start. He headed down to the Potions dungeon first to see if Sherlock was done cleaning up his space. John was quite disappointed when he got there to find the room empty save for Professor Leech shuffling through some papers at his desk.

“Mr. Watson,” Professor Leech glanced at him over his reading spectacles. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir. I was just looking for Sherlock.”

“Ah, the man of the hour.” Leech’s chair creaked as he sat back. “He’s quite the talented one, our Mr. Holmes, isn’t he? Top marks in all his classes, and now working with Herr Moser in the fall.” A proud smile stole over the teacher’s face. “I don’t mind saying he’s quite the prodigy.”

“Yes, sir. He is.” John could feel his own chest inflating with pride.

“John.” Professor Leech seemed to be gathering his words. “It is quite an honour, having one of my students chosen for such a selective position.”

“Yes, I imagine so, Professor.”

“I know I don’t have to tell you this, but it’s imperative that Sherlock not have his attentions divided next year as he takes on this internship.” Professor Leech slid his reading spectacles farther down his nose to better peer over them. “The reputation of Hogwarts goes with him, and I shouldn’t like to see him distracted when he needs to be putting his energies toward his career.”

“Yes, sir.” John felt as though a wave of cold water had just broken over his head.

“I’m sure you understand what I mean. Sometimes we need to put our personal lives aside for awhile in service of the greater good. I see great things coming from our Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” John nodded as the ice water worked its way down his spine. He was grateful to make his exit shortly thereafter when the professor waved him off with wishes for a good summer.

John shoved his hands into his pockets, and made a loop around the castle checking all of Sherlock’s usual haunts. The greenhouses and library were all absent one tall, raven-haired ball of energy. When John finally fetched up at the door to the Ravenclaw tower, he sighed as he stepped closer to the eagle doorknocker. He waited a moment before loudly clearing his throat.

“Is it worse to fail at something or never to attempt it in the first place?” A soft, musical voice lilted from the vicinity of the doorknocker.

“Do you ask that of everyone, or am I just special?” John grumbled. The door said nothing in response. John wasn’t surprised. He’d only tried getting into the Ravenclaw dorm once after Professor Mobius’s edict to ban him - to no good results. He wasn’t expecting anything better this time, but he’d looked everywhere else for Sherlock, and was willing to at least give this a go.

“Course it’s better to try.” John snorted. “You learn from your mistakes. If you never try, you just turn into a great pile of heaping dung like you, you great metal birdhead.” John was close to giving the door a swift kick when a pair of arms slid around his middle, and a mass of curls smashed against his cheek. John reveled in the solid warmth pressed against his back for a moment before a pair of lips found the back of his neck with a resounding smack.

“John.”

“Hey love, I looked everywhere for you.” John turned in Sherlock’s arms with a smile.

“I was moving my things to your room.” Sherlock’s eyes, always a gorgeous kaleidoscope of colours, fairly twinkled at him.

“I must have just missed you. So, we’re ditching the Ravenclaw tower?”

“Wretched door.” Sherlock sniffed. “I’m happy to be shot of it. Anything that keeps you from me deserves to be ground into sawdust. While most of my roommates have cleared out, there’s still Reynolds left in the room, and the door won’t let you pass while he remains. Enough of this gatekeeper nonsense.”

“It’s fine. My room’s quite empty. I just saw the lot off to the train.” John grinned. “We have the place to ourselves until graduation.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Brilliant.” Sherlock grinned as well. “John, are you free now?”

“Well, I think I could clear up my busy schedule of packing the last of my socks to make some time for you, yeah.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and tugged him down the hall. “I want to show you the plants I’ve been working on.”

“Plants?” John asked weakly.

“I won an award for my bioluminous tentancular sylvestris and vibrating spicata viscose.” Sherlock fairly preened. “Come on, they’re all in the smaller greenhouse. Professor Longbottom tells me he’s never seen anything quite like them before.” Sherlock’s elegant face, though often austere in its angles, transformed into something bright and lovely when he grew excited. John marveled at him. He didn’t want to do a thing that might mute Sherlock when he looked like that - like a nightlight, glowing from the inside out.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” John smiled before hurrying to keep up with Sherlock’s absurdly long stride.

 

***

John pulled the ridiculous ruffled robe over his head with a sigh. Graduation required dress robes and John was attending graduation _ergo, ipso facto,_ it was time to actually wear the ugly outfit his mum had found at the charity shop off Diagon Alley. He wasn’t even sure how his mum knew the shop was there when they’d made their yearly trip to buy his school things. When he’d said as much, she’d just shrugged and said that she and his dad had liked to hunt for bargains back when they were dating.

John’s mum was great - of course she was, but it was little moments like that when John felt the loss of his father keenly. He wished he’d had to a chance to know him, and visit the Wizarding world while he was growing up.

The morning had started out so beautifully, waking late to the sun streaming in the dorm windows, a gorgeous boyfriend snoring slightly in his ear. John had stretched, and contemplated which part of Sherlock he was going to nibble at first when a polite throat clearing turned his head. Mycroft Holmes was sat with a newspaper on a padded swivel chair that John was certain hadn’t been in the room when they’d tumbled into bed last night. John blushed when he thought about what he’d been doing with Mycroft’s little brother just a few hours before. He was grateful the man hadn’t arrived any earlier.

“Ah, good morning, John.” Mycroft folded his newspaper neatly in quarters, and tucked it under his arm. “I see you’re awake.”

“Erm, hullo, Mycroft.” John rubbed sand from his eye, and struggled to sit more upright against the pillows.

“My apologies for disturbing you in your bedroom, but I needed to speak with my brother, and he seems to be currently residing in your bed.”

“Uh, yeah, right.” John looked over at the mass of dark curls just peeking out from the blankets, and reached over to touch his boyfriend’s shoulder. He gave it a bit of a shake. “Sherlock.”

“Mmrphm?”

“Sherlock. Wake up.”

Sherlock peeled open an eye that immediately crinkled as a sleepy smile stretched over his mouth. “Jaaawn.” He rumbled moving closer to bury his face in his boyfriend’s stomach. “Mmmmm.” When his soft lips began working their way down his belly to regions farther south, John panicked a bit, shaking his shoulder harder.

“Sherlock,” he hissed. “Your brother, Mycroft.”

This stopped his progress in its tracks. “Whaddaboutim?”

“He’s here.” John jerked his head to the side where Mycroft sat casually glancing over his newspaper again as if didn’t have a front row seat for their boudoir antics.

“MYCROFT?” Sherlock bolted upright, his hair a mad tangle falling in front of his eyes. 

John squeaked, and grabbed the duvet before it slid completely off the bed. He really hated facing Sherlock’s brother when he didn’t have any pants on.

“Good morning, Sherlock. I apologize for the interruption, but as I explained to John, I needed to see you. I wanted to let you know that unfortunately Mummy is unable to attend your graduation today.”

“Nothing’s wrong, is it?” Sherlock asked, pushing his hair back to better view his brother.

John thought that Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable as he picked his words. “Nothing of an immediate nature, no. As you may remember though, Mummy heads several charity organizations. The Order of Orphans of War and Other Calamities is having a large gala today, and she was unable to get away.”

“Oh, I see.” Sherlock said airily, sitting up straighter. John could see him acting as though the news were no bother when it clearly was. John caught one of Sherlock’s hands in his own, and squeezed. Sherlock’s eyes slid to John as his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

Mycroft cleared his throat again. “She did of course ask me to convey her regrets, and best regards for your graduation.”

“Of course.” Sherlock nodded once.

“She also sent this along.” Mycroft’s face gave nothing away as he handed over a large cream-coloured envelope.

John accepted it wordlessly to pass to Sherlock. The tall boy cracked it open, and pulled out the card inside. The front featured a witch in a tight, low-cut dress holding a large collection of balloons, mugging and waving a bit too enthusiastically.

Sherlock snorted and slid a finger under the flap to open it.

“CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BIG DAY!” A tinny voice shouted as an explosion of confetti and glitter blasted over their faces to rain down across the bed.

“Well,” John said, picking a bit of paper out of his mouth, “that was festive.”

Sherlock looked at him, confetti and sparkles all stuck in his mussed curls, and the two of them burst out laughing.

Mycroft’s face softened as he watched the two of them holding their stomachs until their chuckles finally petered out. “Well, then I think I’ll be going to let the two of you get ready. John you’re welcome to join me in my box. I’ll meet you outside the front steps in two hours, say?”

“Yeah, sure, thanks Mycroft.” John nodded.

“Sherlock, if you two don’t have other plans I made reservations for dinner at The Golden Goose after the ceremonies?”

Sherlock looked ready to refuse so John elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Yes, of course,” He blurted out.

“Thanks Mycroft. We’d love to,” John added with a smile.

Mycroft nodded, and upon rising, waved his chair away into the ether from which it had come. “I will see you shortly then.” He said, exiting the room in a swirl of his smart pin-striped robe.

There must be something genetic with all the dramatic swirling, John thought as he turned back to watch Sherlock shaking colourful bits out of his mop with both hands.

“Oh, love, I’m sorry,” John said.

“Whatever for?”

“That your mum won’t be here.”

“It’s nothing new,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Yeah, but it’s not right. I know orphans are important, but surely she could have shown up long enough to see her own son graduate. You’re valedictorian! You’re giving a speech for Godsake!”

“John, I told you before. I’m not close with most of my family.” Sherlock shrugged carelessly.

“Well, at least Mycroft came.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. “He did at that.”

“Come on. We should probably wash, and get this mess off of us. What a mad card, eh?” John chuckled, and swiped at the glitter on his chest, but only managed to smear it around more.

“Mummy probably had an assistant pick it out. It’s not really her style.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “We have a few minutes before we need to wash though. Perhaps we might find something to do with our free time . . .” He trailed off as he lay back, stretching himself luxuriantly across the confetti-strewn sheets like a birthday gift waiting to be opened.

“Oh, I can think of one or two things.” John smiled, swinging a leg over to settle on top of him. He leaned in to lay a kiss to Sherlock’s sparkly forehead. “Hey, have I told you how proud I am of you?”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s eyes were so soft and open, John had to drop kisses all over his face, and down his neck, and then on to other places that led to them barely having enough time to get ready for graduation. After a hasty shower, they dressed, and grabbed a quick sandwich from the Great Hall. Then it was time for Sherlock to join the graduates, and shortly thereafter, John to meet Mycroft outside.

***

A festive stage and risers had been set up by the lake for graduation. Thankfully, it was a lovely day for the ceremony. Sunlight glistened off the surface of the water as pennants for all four houses snapped in the breeze over the stage. John’s breath caught a bit as he watched the graduating class filing out to take their seats in their matching purple robes and pointed hats. He was grateful to Mycroft for providing him a wonderful view in his box for special alumni. John scanned the sea of purple below, searching for one tall figure with a riot of curls sneaking out around his hat.

Mycroft moved about, still shaking hands, and murmuring greetings to the other VIP’s before coming to join John on the comfy armchairs provided. When he finally took his seat, he nudged John, pressing a pair of omnioculars into his hands. “Here, you’ll be better able to view the grand proceedings with these, I think.”

“Ta, Mycroft.” John took the magnifiers with a grateful nod. He placed them to his eyes, and whispered “Find me Sherlock.” The magic lenses zoomed right in on the Ravenclaw moving in to take his own place on the rows of chairs before the stage. As if he could feel John’s eyes, Sherlock turned and ran his gaze over the stands. John waved wildly, feeling a bit silly, but the smile that broke across Sherlock’s face as he found John was ample reward. Sherlock lifted a hand briefly in reply.

“John, I hope you won’t find it too intrusive if I ask you what your intentions are toward my brother.”

John swiveled toward Mycroft without thinking, and gasped as a pink moonscape of bumps and giant pores swung into his magnified field of vision. He quickly lowered the omnioculars to his lap.

“My intentions?” John stammered.

“The two of you have become quite close over a very few months. Hmmm?” Mycroft arched his eyebrows skyward. “He stayed at your home for Spring Break, where he will be returning for another extended visit tomorrow. I wondered if we might be hearing a happy announcement by the end of the summer?” Mycroft tilted his head to the side as a smile that managed to look both mild and reptilian at the same time slid over his mouth.

“Erm, I like Sherlock . . . alot,” John finally managed to answer, “but I think we’re a bit young to get married just yet. I mean I’ve got school to finish, and he has his internship coming up . . .” John trailed off as thoughts of the hated year to come flickered across his mind.

The chatter of the crowd swelled around them as the professors, each dressed in their own formal gear climbed the steps to the the stage below.

“Just so,” Mycroft agreed.

The headmistress, Professor Crumblecatch, stepped up to the podium, and held out her hands to settle the restless crowd. Her amplified voice rolled out over those gathered. “WELCOME FAMILIES AND FRIENDS. WE GATHER TODAY FOR AN EVENT BOTH LONG HOPED FOR AND LONG DREADED, BIDDING FAREWELL TO THIS YEAR’S GRADUATING CLASS OF HOGWARTS.”

After the roar of approval had died down, the headmistress spoke a few words, then the guest speeches began. Someone from the Ministry of Magic got up to speak . . . next generation . . . hope of the future . . . always use sun protection . . . double check your wards when summoning spirits . . . 

John yawned, grateful for the awning overhead that blocked much of the hot sun. He tuned out the rambling talk to focus on Sherlock in the crowd below scratching at the back of his neck. Sherlock had been practicing his valedictorian speech for the last two days in front of a mirror in the lavatory, but had refused to let John listen. “John, you’ll just make me nervous. Wait. You’ll hear it at the ceremony.” 

Another speaker got up, some famous witch John didn’t know well, and John chewed at his thumbnail. He felt all pins and needles waiting to hear Sherlock’s big talk.

Finally, Sherlock was introduced as head of the graduating class, and called forward to speak. Sherlock rose, and made his way to the stage amidst a smattering of applause. John clapped loudly, then pressed the omnioculars to his eyes to watch as Sherlock climbed the final steps, shook hands, and took the podium. He looked a bit anxious, shuffling the note cards in his hand and glancing nervously about. John willed things to go well. 

“Come on, love, you can do it.” He muttered, watching that gorgeous face, usually so pale, flush pink over the cheekbones.

Sherlock finally took a deep breath, and lifted his chin, launching himself into his prepared words. “Good afternoon, staff, students, alumni, family, friends and . . . others. You will listen to many long-winded speeches given at this graduation ceremony today – in the company of which I must include this very talk of my own, so I do apologize at the outset for that. I will endeavor to keep my words brief. Much advice will be bandied about today, most of it well-meaning, some of it garnered from past experience, and some of it simply extrapolated from feel-good editorials found in the people section of local newspapers. Some of you will receive token gifts of quill sets, and heirloom pocket watches as if this will somehow arm you for your life after school. For you will be told that you have been prepared for the future after your years of hard work at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Quite simply most of what you will hear at this ceremony will be complete and utter bullshit.”

Sherlock paused to draw a breath, and a small titter rippled over the crowd as students giggled behind their hands. The adults shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow slightly, and continued on. “It will be platitudes if not outright lies that you are subjected to today. My fellow graduates - you will not be going into a bright, and shiny world filled with endless possibilities just waiting for you to inflict your less than unique skills upon it. No, the world will be as it has always been – a place of toil, and struggle, of defeat and unfairness. Nor have you been prepared for all contingencies that await you in the future no matter how demanding or thorough your education at Hogwarts has been. We can extrapolate from the present what we think the future may hold, but we will not always be right, for the future is a dark and slippery place of many possibilities that only begin to collapse down to a single event when we step forward and fall on our faces, proving ourselves unprepared once more for what awaits us on our slow slog towards our inevitable death.”

Sherlock paused once more. This time silence reigned in the collective horrified gasp of the audience. One baby started to cry and was quickly hushed by its caregiver. John bit his lip.

“Perhaps some might say, why bother at all? Why even try to go forward if entropy is a given, and our end is already written in stone by the Grim Reaper’s hand? As someone close to me once said, it doesn’t matter if you win. What matters is that you try. And try again when that doesn’t work, for it is the process as much as the results that make us people worthy of praise. Fellow students, and those who gather to witness our graduation today, I hope that you will always continue to give a damn, and to have someone by your side who believes in you however many times you fall down on your path. For it is only our ability to pick ourselves back up, and start again in the face of utter failure that will make ourselves, and this sorry world, any better. Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, and stepped down from the podium to nothing but the sound of the pennants rippling in the breeze, and someone coughing. John dropped his omnioculars to the floor as he jumped to his feet to clap. His clapping rang out alone until Mycroft, and then finally a wave of weak applause joined in.

“Erm, thank you Mr. Holmes.” Professor Mobius winced as he took the podium. “At this time, we would like to call forth this year’s graduating class to receive their diplomas. If everyone could please hold your applause until the very end, we would be _most_ appreciative.”

“ADAMS, GLENN”

“ALLWORTH, SADIE”

“ASSAM, ADITI”

John watched as each witch or wizard stood, and dutifully made their way to the stage for a handshake, and a rolled parchment tied with a large purple bow.

“John,” He jumped at the sound of Mycroft’s voice right by his ear. “I’m sure you can see that while Sherlock is quite intelligent in some ways, he can be rather ignorant in others.”

John glanced back, frowning. “What are you talking about, Mycroft?”

“BROWN, STEPHEN”

“Not to be too indelicate, but Sherlock has never had someone before you.”

“Yeah?” John could feel the tips of his ears heating up.

“BUTLER, OLIVIA”

“I know that while Sherlock is very adept with potions and matters of magic and logic, he is quite unused to dealing with matters of the heart.” Mycroft paused for effect. “I should hate to see someone taking advantage of his ill-informed situation. It would make me quite angry if that were to happen. I’m certain you know that I am well connected, John. There is nowhere in the magical world someone could go that I would not know about.”

“What?” John swiveled to better face the man. “What are you on about, Mycroft? I love him, all right? I fucking love him. I’d kill anyone who hurts Sherlock, and I’m none too happy with your precious Mummy who couldn’t even be arsed to pop out to see her own son graduate at the top of his class!” John struggled to keep his voice down.

“CALDWELL, JOSEPH”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he considered John more closely. “I agree. I’m none too happy with our mother’s decisions myself.”

John nodded warily, and retrieved the omnioculars from the floor to watch the students queueing up to the stage.

Despite the professor’s repeated pleas that the audience hold their applause, people kept cheering, and setting off magic fireworks and streamers for their graduates. Those from larger families created minor air raids when their name was called. John fumed as they neared the “H’s.” He didn’t think it was fair that those from smaller families should walk across the stage in silence no matter what the teachers had said. When Sherlock stepped up to receive his diploma, John put two fingers in his mouth, and let out an ear-piercing whistle that echoed across the risers. He hadn’t spent half his life going to football matches for nothing. Although Sherlock could hardly see him, he squinted John’s way in the stands and grinned. 

“Well, John.” Mycroft rubbed inside one of his ears with a pinky. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

"YAY!" John ignored him to cheer at the top of his lungs, clapping as loudly as he could despite the annoyed looks from the others in the box. "WHOOO!"

It took some time to reach Sherlock after the ceremony ended. People swarmed across the lawn, gathering in ever-swirling knots to chat. John knew several of the Gryffindors graduating, and kept being stopped to say farewells. Two were chasers from the Quidditch team – Ethan Cavanaugh, and Charlotte Wells. 

“Oi, John, you’ll have to help Teddy fill up the team next year.” Charlotte laughed as John hugged her good-bye.

“Yeah, if I hear the Gryffindor team has slipped, I’ll have to come back and kick all your arses.” Ethan slapped him on the back.

“Ah, we’ll be hard-pressed without you, my friends. I don’t know if we’ll find chasers to fill your brooms.” John smiled and shook his head at them.

“Can’t let Slytherin win next year though, can we?” Ethan boomed.

Mycroft cleared his throat meaningfully behind John, and he made hasty farewells as they pressed on to locate Sherlock. They finally found him with Molly Hooper hugging him in a death grip about the neck.

“Good luck in your internship. I know you’ll be brilliant.” She smiled broadly at Sherlock when she finally released him.

“Um, thank you Molly. Good luck with your . . . job at the apothecary in Edinburgh?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m looking forward to it.” She ducked her head and smiled further.

“Sherlock, that was a cracking good speech!” Amir, a fellow Ravenclaw, crowded close to grab Sherlock’s hand. “You really woke everyone up from their snooze with that one. Good luck with next year, mate. I’m going to miss those deductions of yours!”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, shaking his hand somewhat awkwardly. When Sherlock turned and saw John waiting nearby, his face lit up like a sunrise. “John.”

“Hullo, love.” John grinned, pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock slipped his hands around John's shoulders. He rubbed a hand across John's back and paused.

“John, what is this awful thing you’re wearing?” Sherlock pulled away in horror to stare at his robe. “Whoever sold you this should be shot." He plucked up some of the fabric to rub between long fingers. "Orange is _not_ your colour.”

“Git.” John smiled, and tugged Sherlock back into his arms. “I put it on for you.”

“I’m buying you something in dark blue then,” he mumbled against John's hair. “It will bring out the depths of your eyes.”

***

Dinner at the Golden Goose was a drawn-out, posh affair. John glanced about uncomfortably at the gold striped wallpaper and lines of shining silverware set by each plate. Silver pitchers kept floating by the table to refill their water goblets at regular intervals. For all the years he’d been going to Hogsmeade on weekends, this was the first time John had ever been in such an upscale place.

The food was excellent however, and John lost himself in enjoying each course as it came out. Everyone ooh'ed appreciatively over the flaming scallops, and the exploding chocolate lava cake was as delicious as it was dramatic. 

Sherlock even ate a decent amount as they relaxed over the bottle of wine shared around. Mycroft made perfectly polite small talk through the meal, but the moment he excused himself from the table, Sherlock pounced on John. “All right, what did Mycroft say to you?”

“What?” John turned innocent eyes toward Sherlock, and took another swallow from his wine glass.

“Don’t ‘what’ me. I know my brother grilled you over something.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Tell me or I’m pulling it out of Mycroft when he comes back.”

John sighed, “He just told me not to break your heart or he was coming after me.”

Sherlock’s face twisted into a moue of disgust. “How dare he.”

“Look, I speak perfect sibling. It just means he cares, all right? Let it go.” John shrugged.

Sherlock tensed up, looking ready for a fight when Mycroft returned, but John kicked his ankle lightly under the table, and Sherlock settled back into his seat.

“Sherlock. Now that you’ve graduated, there’s a small matter that I’d like to take care of.” Mycroft reached into a pocket inside his robe, and extracted a small silver-wrapped box that he set in the middle of the table.

Sherlock coloured slightly as he stared at it. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said.

“I did. Open the box, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiled slightly and nudged it closer toward him.

With a sigh, Sherlock reached out to take the present, pulling the paper and lid off to reveal the gold pocket watch nestled inside. “Father’s watch.” He said simply flicking his eyes back towards Mycroft.

“Your watch, now,” Mycroft corrected.

“He left it to you.” Sherlock peered into the small box in his hand, but made no move to take the item out.

“And now I’m giving it to you,” he countered.

“I wasn’t hinting, you know. In the speech.” Sherlock coloured again.

“I know you weren’t. Still, the watch is yours.”

Sherlock finally reached in to pluck the watch from its covering, cradling it in his palm.

“Ooh, that’s lovely,” John said, leaning in for a closer look.

“It functions as a sneakoscope, a compass, and a music box, as well as telling perfect time,” Sherlock said proudly holding it out.

“Sherlock’s had his eye on it since he was five.” Mycroft smirked. 

Sherlock finally let his gaze tear away from the treasure in his hand to return to Mycroft. “Thank you.” The side of his mouth tipped up into a small smile despite himself.

“You’re welcome, brother mine,” Mycroft nodded.

Mycroft walked them back to the gates of the school in the gathering dusk of the long summer night. “You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning for the Watsons’?”

“Yes, we’re taking the 10 am train,” John answered, lacing his hand into Sherlock’s as the two of them grinned at each other.

“And you’ll be at Grand-Mère’s birthday party?” Mycroft pressed.

“Of course, Mycroft.” Sherlock struggled to keep his tone level as he pulled his eyes from John to answer. “I’d never miss it.”

“Good.” Mycroft nodded, and made to turn away. “Ah, Sherlock, one last thing.”

Sherlock paused as Mycroft put out a hand. “Congratulations, Sherlock. You’ve done the Holmes family proud.”

Sherlock studied the well-groomed hand a moment before reaching out to take it. “Thank you, I think.” He said returning Mycroft's grip.

“Now, with that I really must dash. Good-night Sherlock, John.” Mycroft nodded amiably at the both of them before turning to disapparate off.

“Come on, John” Sherlock tugged on his arm as Mycroft winked out. “I can’t wait to get you out of that hideous robe.”

“Hey. My mum paid half-price for this I’ll have you know.”

They glanced at each other, and burst into giggles making their way back to Hogwarts, and John’s four-poster bed awaiting them in the Gryffindor dorms.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to deebzy for their fabulous [artwork](http://alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com/post/140683183618/many-thanks-to-deebzy-for-her-commissioned-artwork) of the exploding card scene in this chapter!!! Go take a peek - it's adorable! LOVE it!


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is thrilled to spend some time in a REAL Muggle office, until he actually gets there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice glass of foaming butterbeer to otp221b for her fabulous, and very fast beta services!!

***

“John, do you think your mother will let me drive her car this visit?”

John stared out the window as the Hogsmeade station fell away behind them. The train to London was almost deserted, and they easily had a whole compartment to themselves. Sherlock knew he was meant to be feeling nostalgic about leaving Hogwarts for the last time, but he was far too excited at their upcoming plans.

“Nooo.” John laughed, turning around to face him. “Not happening, sorry.”

“Would she let you drive her car now?”

“Still don’t have a license, love.” John’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Can’t you get one this summer?” Sherlock tried to keep the whine from his voice. Surely the pesky need for paperwork could be taken care of easily enough.

“Well, I still don’t know how to drive, and I figure at this point, why bother?” John shrugged. “I’ll be old enough to apparate in a few weeks. In fact, I was thinking we could practice together?” John squeezed Sherlock’s knee. “As soon as I turn seventeen, the Ministry can’t send me any more howlers for doing underage magic.”

“Excellent idea, John.” Sherlock could already see the possibilities unfolding. “There should be apparating exams in Hogsmeade at the first of the school year. We’ll have you in ripping form by then.”

“Fantastic.” John smiled, and his beautiful face shifted to something completely angelic. Sherlock had to lean forward and drop a kiss to those sweetly-curved lips.

The ride home was a quiet one, and after snogging each other silly, they moved on to reading (John) and mind palace cleaning (Sherlock) while draped companionably against each other. For such a small group of travelers, the train offered no snacks trolley so they were both quite famished when the train pulled into King’s Cross station.

John’s mum was easy to spot waving and calling once when they made it off platform nine and three quarters. She hugged them both, kissing Sherlock’s cheek, and gushing on about how proud she was that he’d graduated with top marks. Sherlock couldn’t help beaming at Mrs. Watson, mumbling out his thanks. She insisted on taking them out for sushi as a treat. Sherlock had never had the oddly-wrapped bits of fish before, but he quickly discovered he liked it immensely. 

“John we _have_ to get this again!” he crowed.

“Of course, love.” John smiled fondly.

John showed him how the chopsticks worked, and introduced him to the joy and pain of wasabi. Sherlock fumbled a bit working out the unfamiliar tableware, but Mrs. Watson and John jabbered away together so furiously, catching up, that Sherlock found enough unobserved time to experiment and get the chopsticks working well enough.

Sherlock marveled anew at how well John’s mum maneuvered the car around London traffic on the drive back to the Watsons’ home. “Sherlock, it’s darling of you to agree to help out at the estate office,” She called back from her place at the wheel. “It’s a bit of a scramble with both our intern and the secretary out this month.”

“Ah, it’s no bother.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I’m quite looking forward to it.” Truly he could hardly contain himself at the notion of a whole three weeks up close and personal with a Muggle place of business. He had only heard tell of fax machines. The chance to examine one in detail fair made him shiver.

John looked back from the front passenger seat, shooting him a complicated expression, frowning and smiling at once. Sherlock grinned in reply, and John’s wrinkled forehead smoothed before he turned back around.

It was dark when they pulled into the Watsons’ driveway. “I don’t know how much we’ll see Harry while you’re here.” Mrs. Watson said casually as she opened the boot for them. “She got a new job by her flat for the summer. I hope she’ll be here for your birthday though, John.”

“Yeah, all right, Mum, no worries.” John nodded. He and Sherlock pulled the luggage from the boot, a task made much easier when Sherlock slipped his wand out and laid a quick lightening spell over the suitcases. They carried the trunk up the steps, and into the foyer, returning for the next one. 

“Anyone for an ice cream before bed?” Mrs. Watson popped her head out of the kitchen.

Sherlock was pleased to note that little had changed at the Watsons’ home since his last visit, and no sneakoscopes or other spy devices had appeared about the place. Perhaps Mycroft was finally easing up. Sherlock was legally an adult for goodness sake. It’s not as if he needed an older brother mollycoddling him forever.

The little conservatory that he’d added to the Watsons’ home on his last visit was still holding up nicely. Sherlock was fairly certain that a sling shot effect wouldn’t send it spiraling back to his mother’s country home in Surrey. Since they’d already built a new room to replace the missing one, a sudden reappearance of it would be quite the disaster.

An even better discovery was finding his owl, Merlin, happily settled in the hutch outside the kitchen window with John’s owl, Simpson. He fed them both a few owl treats from a box that John fished out from the back of a cupboard. Merlin nipped Sherlock’s fingers affectionately before the two owls hooted softly, and took to wing, presumably off for a little night hunting. Sherlock was glad that Merlin had waited to greet him before leaving.

“I don’t suppose you two need the sleeping bag this time, do you?” Mrs. Watson asked them before she turned in.

“No, Mum, thanks. We’ll be fine," John assured her.

“I’m sorry the bed’s so small though.” She clucked.

“MUM, we’ll manage. It’s all right.” John coloured slightly over his collar.

“All right then. Sherlock, it is good to have you over again, dear.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock smiled shyly at John's mum. 

“Good night, you two.”

“Good night, Mum.”

“Good night, Mrs. Watson.”

Once Sherlock had spelled their trunks up to John’s room, they dug out toothbrushes, and got ready for bed. John looked over his twin bed and frowned. “God, I did forget how tiny it was though. You get spoiled with those big beds at Hogwarts, don’t you?”

“A trifling matter easily remedied,” Sherlock scoffed, finding his wand again. With a few muttered words he sent an enlarging spell over John’s room. The bed gave a twitch as it rippled out growing at least three times bigger. Obligingly, the walls jumped back to accommodate it.

“That won’t bother the loo will it?” John asked nodding to the far wall that backed against the toilet.

“No, the expanded space is still contained within your room.”

“Brillant!” John said, running a hand over the enlarged powder blue duvet that now stretched across the enormous mattress. “Sir, your bed awaits you.” He gestured grandly.

“Indeed, but only if you’re in it as well,” Sherlock said.

“Of course. We offer a full package of services at Chez Watson.” John winked.

“Oh really? For anyone who visits?” Sherlock drawled, tugging his shirt free from his trousers to begin unbuttoning it.

“Well.” John grinned as he bent to work off his shoes. “I’ll keep my special services exclusive to one guest only then, shall I?

“I should hope so.” Sherlock, stripped down to his pants first, slid under the duvet. “John. Come here.” Sherlock held out his arms. Suddenly John being just across the room was much, much too far.

“Don’t mind if I do.” John smiled, dropping his trousers to climb in after.

 

***

“Well, here’s the new interns, then? Aren’t we lucky, two handsome young men to liven things up around our dull little office this summer.”

“Well, Mrs. Kent, in fact, Sherlock is interning, but John is temping . . . and being paid? We did discuss this.”

“June, of course, of course.” Mrs. Watson’s office manager turned a smile much too full of teeth their way.

“Mrs. Kent, thanks for letting us fill in here.” John stuck out his hand. “We do appreciate it.”

“Oh, call me Edith, please,” she tittered, taking John’s hand. “So you’re June’s son. Where has she been hiding you all this time?”

“Erm, away at school?” John answered.

“Lovely, just lovely.” The woman purred as her other hand moved to cup John’s elbow. “So have you worked a front desk before, dear?” As she continued smiling and not releasing John, Sherlock felt something ugly surge through him. He could feel the hot energy rising, making his curls crackle.

“Well no, but . . .”

Quietly Sherlock slid his wand from his pocket, and flicked it behind his back. A framed picture on the far wall fell with a crash. Everyone jumped.

Mrs. Kent patted at her streaked hairdo as if it had somehow been disturbed from its shellacked state. “Well, how strange. We’ll just have Mindy fix that. MINDY!” Mrs. Kent called. “Wherever's that girl got off to now?”

“She’s on holiday. It’s Sherlock replacing her.” Mrs. Watson smiled tightly.

“We’ll both get it, no worries.” John said, dragging Sherlock by one arm to the scene of the crime. “Sherlock,” John hissed as they squatted down behind the cubicle wall. “We talked about this – no magic in the Muggle world.”

“But John,” Sherlock pleaded.

“Oh, look. The glass is all cracked.” John sighed.

Sherlock spared a glance for the subpar painting of some brick country manor, and shrugged. The trees in the garden didn’t even move in the breeze. “Well, it’s hardly fine art.” He whispered.

“True, but that’s not the point,” John whispered back. “Look, can you just fix it?”

“John, you just said not to do any more magic around Muggles. . .”

“I know. I know what I said, but just this once – fix it! Please.” John hissed.

“Fine.” Sherlock found his wand again, and cast the charm quickly over the painting. _“Reparo.”_

They stood, Sherlock reaching up to rehang the picture when a man in a thin suit stalked loudly into the room. “MINDY! Where is that girl?” He bellowed. “How about Lara? We have clients in a half an hour and we need the tea and pastries in the conference room.”

“Nigel, luv, they’re both out on holiday. You know that.” Mrs. Kent clucked. “No worries, we’ve got these two lovely lads to help us now. John and Shelton?” She raised eyebrows briefly their way.

“Sherlock,” he automatically corrected her.

“Yes, of course. Boys, this is Nigel Beedles, he’s our top agent. Come and say hello, dear.” She waved the man over.

“Charmed.” He flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now about the food for the conference!” He turned back to Mrs. Kent. “This meeting is important, it’s imperative . . .”

“Ah, Shelwin.” Mrs. Kent touched Sherlock’s bicep. “Be a love, and pop out and get something from the patisserie around the corner.”

“I’ll go.” John jumped in. “Sherlock is new to the area – I can show him where the shops are? It won’t take a moment.”

“Excellent, excellent.” Mrs. Kent clapped her hands. “Dear boys, I’m sure you’ll both do smashingly. DO let me know if you need help with any little thing. Donna can show you the phone system when you get back. She answers the phone when the receptionist is on break.”

“Yes ma’am, thank you.” John nodded.

“Edith, please, dear.”

“Thank you, Edith, ma’am,” John said, and Sherlock struggled not to laugh as the woman’s mouth twisted up into an irritated little pout.

 

***

“John, Sherlock, thank you again, really.” Mrs. Watson said lifting a metal box from a drawer to the front desk. She opened it to count out a few notes that she handed to John. “Here you can take this from petty cash, and go buy a dozen donuts at the shop across the street. Nigel doesn’t need anything fancy for a meet over a two-story town house. Get yourselves a drink while you’re there.”

“Thanks, Mum.” John smiled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock added.

 

***

Donna turned out to be a young woman with long blonde hair who seemed tasked with the responsibility of guiding them around the office. She looked delighted at the prospect of having someone newer than herself to boss around, and kept finding demeaning tasks for Sherlock to do while fussing over John. Sherlock gritted his teeth as he passed them, carrying boxes to a storage room while Donna leaned over John on the pretext of showing him some new button on the telephone. She said something that made John laugh as her breasts brushed against his shoulder.

“Your friend from school, he’s a bit scary, innit he?” she said as Sherlock turned the corner.

“Sherlock? No, he’s great . . .” He heard John come to his defense before he moved down the hall. Sherlock sighed as he stacked the box with its compatriots in the cupboard thinking how quickly the whole lot could have been shooed into place with a single wave of his wand.

Examining a Muggle office wasn’t turning out to be quite as exciting as he had originally anticipated. By the second week, as he sat sorting and stapling endless bits of paper together, he was quite certain of it.

“Sherlock!” Nigel brayed, emerging from his office. Sherlock sighed. The man was labouring under the delusion that Sherlock was his own personal house elf, and Sherlock was being far too gracious to correct him. It was only a few more days left here he reminded himself.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock looked up, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

“Here now, son, you didn’t put the right cover on these booklets. I need it fixed for my two o’clock showing.”

“But you said you wanted the green covers . . .” Sherlock began

“No, no I’m certain I said we needed the blue cover on these ones. Hurry up and finish, and you can run and fetch me a coffee when you’re done. Two sugars. There’s a good lad.” The man had the audacity to wink at him, _wink,_ as he retreated into his lair.

“Of course, Nigel.” Sherlock snarled. He was ready to hex the next cuppa he had to fetch the annoying man only he’d promised John - _no more magic._

The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that John wasn’t fairing much better with his own menial tasks. John laughed about things over dinner that night. They’d caught the bus home while John’s mum worked late showing a house, and picked a nearby pizza place for food. “If I never have to say _‘Good morning, Uptown Realty, our house is your house, how may I help you?’_ again for the REST of my natural life it will be too soon. Honestly.”

“I’m ready to turn Nigel into a large sea slug.” Sherlock grumbled.

“I know,” John said, helping himself to another slice of pepperoni. “What a wanker. He’s running you ragged, and I’m sorry. It would be an improvement – him being a slug. At least the office would be quieter. You won’t though, will you?” John glanced at him, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Sherlock wanted to lean forward and kiss the wrinkle away. “I’m tempted,” he lifted one shoulder “but no, it’s not worth being yelled at by the Muggle Liaison office. I’ll tell you who’d really be worth it – that Donna woman.” Sherlock frowned as he took a sip of his Coke. It was a strange beverage, but he’d quickly grown a liking to it.

“Oh come on, Donna’s not so bad. She’s not being rude to you, is she?”

“Not as such, no but she’s all over you like a cephalopod half the day, John. I’m getting tired of it.” Sherlock had told himself he wouldn’t pout like some jealous thirteen-year old girl, but the bitter feeling in his stomach wouldn’t stay down any longer. “She asked you out this weekend,” he blurted.

“She was just being friendly, telling me about a concert she and her friends were going to.” John shrugged. “I told her I wasn’t free, that we were going to the movies. God, she’s at least seven years older than I am, Sherlock.”

“You didn’t tell her.”

“Tell her what?” John looked guilty as he held his slice of pizza up for another bite.

“You didn’t tell her we were going out, did you? You let her think we were just friends.”

“Sherlock, our life is our own personal business. It doesn’t concern everyone at Uptown Realty.”

“You’re ashamed of me.” To Sherlock’s horror, he felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyelids.

“No, no, of course not, God.” John dropped the pizza to his plate, and leaned forward to take hold of Sherlock’s arm. “I love you. More than anything. You have to know that.”

“I know.” Sherlock dropped his eyes to where John’s hand wrapped over his forearm. “It’s just that you haven’t been correcting anyone lately when they call me your _friend.”_

Rather than deny it, John released his hold to lean back in his chair. He blew out a breath. “Oh boy. It’s not you, okay Sherlock? If it were up to me, I’d yell it from the tree tops. I’m so lucky to be with you. It’s just . . . my mum.”

“What about your mother?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s just . . she has to work with these idiots day in and day out. I don’t want anyone giving her a hard time about her fairy son, all right?”

“I don’t understand . . .” Sherlock began.

“Look it’s different with Muggles, all right?” John cut in. “I know in the Wizarding world, it’s fine, being gay is fine, but with the Muggles, it’s an issue sometimes. I just don’t want Mum getting any shit about it.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. The daily life of Muggles was so clearly out of his range of expertise, he could hardly critique John’s fears. 

“All right,” he agreed finally.

“Oh, don’t look so glum.” John leaned forward to drop a kiss to the edge of his mouth. Suddenly feeling paranoid, Sherlock glanced quickly around the restaurant, but the noisy family of Muggles sat nearby, and the older couple across the room weren’t paying them any attention. “It’s only another week.” John said reaching under the table to squeeze his thigh. “We’re strong, we can take it.”

“All right, John, another week.”

“I’ll have my birthday dinner at the weekend, and then we’re off to France to see your grandmother. Tell me about her. I know she means a lot to you.”

“Oh, she’s wonderful.” Sherlock smiled as he conjured up the memory of the spry, older woman who never really seemed to age. “I think you’ll like her. Grand-mère taught me to brew my first real potion. I exploded the cauldron across the room, and she only laughed. _‘Failing is not ze problem, Sherlock, what you do next – that is the real problem, no?’”_

John grinned at his French accent, his whole face softening as he leaned his chin onto his fist. “She sounds amazing. What else do you remember of her?” It was impossible to stay upset when John looked at him with those gorgeous indigo eyes, nodding and smiling at him as if he were the sun and the moon, and the stars in between.

 

***

 

Monday opened on a sour note. They’d woken late to dark skies, and sheeting rain outside. Their alarms had obviously been knocked off by a power outage sometime during the night. Sherlock only grudgingly dragged himself from John’s warm side under their gigantic duvet when Mrs. Watson banged on their door. They’d rushed to get dressed and out to the car in record time.

“Everyone belted in?” Mrs. Watson called before launching them recklessly into the morning traffic. She’d nearly collided with three other cars on the wild ride, leaving Sherlock’s knuckles white from gripping the dash by the time they pulled into the parking lot. He wished he hadn’t been given a front seat on that particular day. Even John looked a bit peaky as they made their way inside.

Still, despite their valiant efforts, they’d been half an hour late, and Mrs. Kent had dressed John’s mum down in front of everyone for not being more responsible. “Honestly, June, you’re a mother. I expected more from you. Donna’s had to answer the phones all morning.”

“I’m so sorry Edith, it won’t happen again.” Mrs. Watson had apologized, dragging off her wet coat, and shooing John and Sherlock ahead to their spots.

“Damn . . . bloody . . . half an hour.” John muttered ominously under lowered brows though he took his place at the front desk placidly enough.

Sherlock felt utterly frustrated knowing he could have apparated with John and his mum, and arrived at the realty office in seconds avoiding the whole mess of the traffic and the rain.

“John, how do Muggles DO this every day?” Sherlock asked, leaning over the desk to whisper to him.

“I dunno . . .” John began when Nigel, Mr. sea-slug-in-training himself, appeared to interrupt. “Sherlock, there you are! Look lively, man, I need donuts and tea in the conference room in fifteen minutes.”

There was nothing for it then, but for Sherlock to borrow Mrs. Watson’s brolly, and head back out into the wet to fetch donuts while John started the tea in the kitchenette. Sherlock thought he’d done well as he crossed the street, keeping the box of baked goods well sheltered under the umbrella, but just as he stepped over the kerb a large lorry careened by, sluicing a wave of water over his legs.

“Bloody hell.” Sherlock groaned, surveying trousers now soaked past the knee. He stepped under the awning to the office, and lingered in the doorway, working his wand out of his pocket. He felt a wave of guilt, he’d promised John no magic, but a quick glance around showed no one nearby, and he lowered the umbrella in front of him just in case. _“Adsicco”_ he muttered sending a wave of hot air from his wand that instantly dried him. He slipped the wand away, grateful that he felt bolstered enough to withstand Nigel’s grating voice again.

By late morning, the rainstorm had moved on leaving a general gloominess in its wake. Sherlock was pleased to see Mr. Nigel Beedles leaving for business elsewhere, and was looking forward to a quiet afternoon when Mrs. Kent appeared, dropping a large box on his desk. “Sherwood, I have a little project for you, my dear.”

“Yes, ma’am?” Sherlock had given up on correcting her abuse of his given name.

“We need the front window display redone – it’s so dreary out, a little change will do us all some good.”

Sherlock sighed and followed the woman carrying the box that turned out to be filled with holiday decorations. She led him to the front of the office where the display window lay. Sherlock had paid it little mind up to this point – it sported a mawkish display of fake flowers and a few dolls dressed for gardening scattered about. The manager showed him how to slide a panel aside to access the window compartment, and pointed him to a nearby cupboard where a few other boxes of decorative stuff lurked within.

“See what you can find for summer in here. Maybe a nice beach scene? I’m sure you can use your imagination and come up with something suitably attractive. I mean decorating comes so naturally to your people, yes?”

Sherlock blinked, stunned for a moment. Had the woman somehow discovered that he was a Wizard? He’d tried to be so careful earlier with his wand. Sherlock panicked, opening and closing his mouth as he tried to think. He glanced frantically toward John stuck at the front desk, but he was on the phone and turned away.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Kent cocked her head to the side. “I just assumed you were gay, dear. The pretty ones always are.”

“I’m . . . I mean . . .” Sherlock stammered completely unsure what to say now that John had told him that most Muggles hated homosexuals.

“No worries,” Mrs. Kent cut back in sweeping her eyes up and down the length of him. “I can tell that you’ve got a great sense of style, dear. I’m sure you’ll do a fabulous job with the window.”

Sherlock glanced down at his clothes as well, and frowned. He had on a purple button-up shirt, and black trousers – nothing too out of the ordinary. Of course the dragon-skin shoes and belt were a fairly recent addition to his wardrobe – arriving from his grandmother by owl post before graduation. Still, it was all dark, simple things - hardly worth a fuss.

“Here, we can close the front blinds. You can create your masterpiece in secret, and tomorrow, we’ll have a big unveiling.” Mrs. Kent leaned in to pull the cord that slid the blinds down over the window. “If you need anything else for the display, there’s a Poundland just down the block. Pick up anything you need, luv . . within reason of course. Good luck, I have complete confidence.” She patted him on the arm. “BEACH.” She stage whispered as she backed away, making a motion of rolling waves with her hand.

“Yes, Mrs. Kent.” Sherlock smiled weakly after her.

Sherlock hauled out any boxes of bits and bobs from the cupboard that looked useful, and started the process of stripping away the garden scene.

“All right what mad thing do they have you doing now?”

Sherlock looked up from the box he was poking through to see John stood behind him, hands on his hips. “Apparently graduating with top marks in school qualifies me to be the resident design expert now, and I’m to do something “summery” for the window display.” He snorted.

“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” John winced. “I didn’t realize how stupid this would be when I asked if you wanted to work in my mum’s office this summer. You aren’t even getting paid. Look if you want to skive off, I can take over.”

“John, I’ve been tasked with using my ‘eye for design’ to make a new display. This is the first time someone has asked me to do something here that might actually take a portion of my brain to accomplish. This is on.”

“Okay, okay.” John laughed. “I’ll help you get the garden stuff out of here at least.” John climbed into the window compartment and passed the rest of the flowers and small water cans back to Sherlock to box.

“Ooh, time for the summer display, then?” Sherlock glanced over to see a couple of the estate agents had gathered to watch their progress. A tall and a short woman - he’d never bothered to learn their names.

“Yup.” Sherlock replied accepting a bit of fencing that John passed over.

“I liked the picnic scene from last year.” Short plump said, “Such clever little ants everywhere.”

“Oh, but the boating one the year before, that was nice too,” Tall thin added.

“True. What are you doing for this year?” Shortie asked.

“Apparently, a beach theme—Mrs. Kent’s request,” Sherlock replied.

“Maybe you could combine the best of the lot?” Beanpole said scratching her nose.

“Wot, ants on boats?” Shortie laughed. “It won’t be the right scale, Lydia – it’d be like giant mutant ants from outer space on holiday, that!”

“Oh, ha, ha.” Her tall friend pulled a face at her.

“Whatever Sherlock comes up with, I’m sure it will be magnificent.” John said climbing down from the window.

“Oh, Sherlock . . .” Another voice entered the conversation. Ugh. Donna.

“Yes?” He swiveled to face her.

“We need an order of sandwiches and things brought in for a lunchtime meeting. It’s a seminar or something. Can you just pop down and get them?” She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder as she nodded toward the door. “They’re at the Pret just down the street.”

“Cor, why can’t Edith just have them delivered?” Short and plump turned to Donna.

“Dunno, I guess the old bat wants to save money. Lord knows she won’t pass the savings on to her staff.” Donna said with a sneer.

“Donner, look, I’ll just nip out and get them. Sherlock’s already gone out for food once, and he’s got a big project to finish,” John said, gesturing toward the display window.

“Oh, John they’re probably really heavy. She’s ordered bottled drinks too. I’ll come and help you.”

“Cheers.” John smiled at her.

“I can go,” Sherlock offered, but Donna and John were already moving.

“Naw, don’t worry, just concentrate on _summer!”_ John smiled opening the door for the yellow-headed, boyfriend-poaching troll.

“What about the phones?” Sherlock called after them.

“Oh, they can be on automatic for a few minutes.” Donna waved as they disappeared out the door.

Sherlock didn’t talk about it much, but designing dioramas was actually something he had quite enjoyed as a child. Generally, they’d been large battle scenes involving dragons and werewolves, but he’d been meticulous with setting his models up. He’d only really stopped once his cousin Alastaire had caught him working on one at Grand-mère’s, and run off telling everyone that Sherlock was playing with _dolls._ He’d gone to Hogwarts shortly thereafter, and found a variety of new things to occupy his time. Like much of his childhood, he’d simply left the hobby behind.

Still, he felt a familiar tug of pride at creating something - even if it was just a silly ocean scene with some battered Muggle decorations. He set to work assembling the things he would need, and even found an old blue plastic tablecloth at the bottom of one box that he set to cutting into ribbons to curl into waves.

John and Donna returned with the food, flushed from walking outside, and laughing as they balanced the bags in their arms. Sherlock made to call John over, but Mrs. Kent swooped in and herded them both to the conference room.

“John, why don’t you stay for the meeting, dear? We need someone to flip the charts.”

“All right, Mrs. . . . . Edith.”

Sherlock blew hair back from his face. It was fine. With the office phones on automatic, and most of the staff either out, or stuck in the meeting, he had the place to himself for once. He soon lost himself in setting up the beach and the fake waves, arranging little towels, miniature beach umbrellas, and teddy bears in swimsuits he’d uncovered who looked like they belonged in the summer scene. He lost himself so in the process, that he didn’t even think when he took out his wand and commanded _“Animo”_ once all was properly set. Everything in the scene shuddered and came to life. The plastic waves rippled artfully across the floor. Small fish leaped up from the water as tiny seagulls circled overhead. The Teddys rubbed sunscreen on each other, pulled paper-backs from their mesh bags, and settled down to read. Marvelous.

Sherlock smiled, transfixed in seeing the small world come to life. He was watching a pint-sized whale that kept rising to the surface to shoot spray from its blowhole when a barely-audible squeak sounded nearby. Sherlock turned quickly to find Mrs. Kent behind him, eyes stretched wide, a single index finger extended to point to the display. “Bububububu . . . .” She seemed unable to get beyond a single syllable, stuck on endless repeat.

Damn. Sherlock didn’t need a manual on Wizard-Muggle relations to realize that he had just bollocksed things up good and proper. Without another thought, he waved his wand at her, _“Stupefy!”_ Instantly the woman stiffened up like a statue, and toppled backwards to the floor. Sherlock had to admit, if only to himself, that this was a temporary fix for things at best. Quickly, he waved his wand again, sending the inert form of the manager sailing across the room to land gently between a desk and wall, before rising to lock the front door, and flip the sign in the window to “closed.” Looking wildly about for some direction on what to do next, he could only come up with one word, _John._ Sherlock breathed a quick sigh of relief. As Sherlock’s living, breathing guide to the Muggle world, John would know what to do.

Sherlock stuck his head in the door of the conference room, and flashed the friendliest smile he could muster to the people gathered around the table. “Pardon me, but there’s a very important call on the phone for John?”

John followed him back to the front of the office, worry lines pinching the sides of his mouth. “What’s up, is it Harry?”

“No, nothing like that – it’s Mrs. Kent.”

“Mrs. Kent is calling me?” John screwed up his face. “But wasn’t she right here?” 

“No, no.” Sherlock shook his head. “Just come and see.”

He led John to where the manager lay stiffened behind the desk. “Now do you see? She saw my display, and I had to stupefy her.”

“What the hell?” John’s gaze swung from the petrified woman, to the beach-front scene in the window still merrily purring along. John walked toward it, his mouth hanging slightly open. One of the seagulls had found his way from the window display, zooming toward John’s head, and he had to duck to avoid a collision.

“Christ on a pogo stick. Sherlock, can’t you turn it off? Before the next person finds it, and we’ve got to freeze half the office?”

“Oh, right. Right.” Why hadn’t he thought of that? Already John was improving the situation greatly. Sherlock flicked his wand at the diorama. _“Conversio.”_ Sadly, the creatures dropped their animation, and returned to stillness. The gulls tumbled from the air.

“For godsake, what were you _doing?”_ John sputtered.

“John, I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Right we need to get Mrs. Kent sorted, immediately!” John’s nostrils had expanded to twice their normal size.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock swallowed. “I can certainly restore her, but she’s already seen the display . . .”

“We need to erase her memory. Can you do that? Or do we need to call in someone from the Ministry?”

“NO. Not the Ministry.” Sherlock pleaded. “Not Mycroft. Please, I can do this, John. Really.”

“Sherlock, breathe. Goddamnit, I wish I could just do magic myself already. Fine, it’s up to you. Unfreeze her, and then erase the memory.” John pulled a hand over his face. “Mind, JUST the memory of the display. We don’t need a witless woman here running my mum’s office . . . though really how anyone could tell the difference. Just . . . clean this up. NOW.”

“Right, John, right.”

Sherlock licked his lips, and swept his wand above the statue that had once been Edith Kent. _“Rennervate”_ he commanded. Thankfully, the stiffness dropped away and Mrs. Kent gasped in a breath.

“Edith, how are you?” John was on his knees by her side in an instant. “You fainted! Can you sit up?”

“I think so.” A very confused Mrs. Kent allowed herself to be pulled to sitting. “But I saw, I know I saw . . . I must be going mad . . .”

“No, no of course not, Edith.” John patted her hand between his own. “Sherlock . . .” he warned over his shoulder.

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. _“Oblivate!”_ He cried, flicking his wand with as much intent as he could possibly manage. A flash of light coursed over the woman.

Edith blinked up at him owlishly. “Good morning young man, can I help you?”

“I’m fine, ma’am. It’s you who fainted.”

“Oh dear, I do feel a bit funny.” Edith rubbed a hand over her forehead.

“John, go get your mum.” Sherlock hissed by his ear. “Tell her what happened. It’s possible I’ve only obliterated any memories she has associated with me, but it’s also possible . . . Have your mum speak to her, see if she still remembers other things. I think though,” Sherlock swallowed, “ that I need to get out of her sight.”

“Fine, fine.” John whispered back. “Why don’t you apparate home, and we’ll meet you after work. I’ll tell everyone you felt ill. If she DOESN’T remember everything else though, I’m calling in the Ministry.”

“Okay.” Sherlock hurried to the loo as he heard John helping Mrs. Kent back to her office. He was relieved to find the men’s toilet quite empty, and wasted no time in apparating back to the Watsons’. Sadly, Sherlock had hours yet to fret at John’s house before he and his mother finally arrived home by the car.

“Well, how is she?” Sherlock met them nervously at the door.

“She’s fine. Sherlock, don’t worry. I spoke with Edith several times during the afternoon.” Mrs. Watson held her palms outward. “I kept trying to remind her about the increase in personal days she’d declared, and she was having none of it. Still sharp as a tack. She doesn’t remember a thing about you though. Bit awkward there.”

“Sherlock, what were you thinking?” John burst out. “I can’t believe you!”

“I’m so sorry. I lost track . . . I forgot I was in a Muggle place.” Sherlock ducked his head.

“John.” Mrs. Watson turned a stony look his way. “Who put his aunt’s hair on fire at a Christmas dinner?”

“I was only eight.” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It was an accident.”

“The point is accidents do happen. I know magic gets out of control sometimes. It’s all right.” The side of Mrs. Watson’s mouth hitched up slightly. “You, however,” she rounded on Sherlock, “will need to stay out of the office for the duration. It won’t make sense if everyone but Edith knows you’ve been there for two weeks.”

“Yeah, it’s only four more days before all the regulars come back anyway,” John added. “We’ll just tell the rest of the office you had to go home early – family emergency.”

“Fine.” Sherlock clipped out.

“Hey, you’ll be okay for a few days on your own?” John softened as he reached out to catch Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes, certainly.” Sherlock nodded.

“We’ll be home in the evenings, and there’s a Muggle library in town you might enjoy.” John suggested.

“It’ll be fine. I’m just sorry I bodged things up.”

“No. It’s just as well you got out of there.” John ran his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “I didn’t like how that Nigel was ordering you around.”

“I’m sorry too, Sherlock. It wasn’t supposed to be so much work for you.” Mrs. Watson said with a small smile.

“I didn’t mind.” Sherlock gave John’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“Nigel is too big for his pants sometimes.” Mrs. Watson sighed. “Well, enough of that business. What say we go out for Chinese? Celebrate your liberation?”

“I’d like that.” Sherlock smiled at them both.

Later in bed that night, John’s touch was exceedingly tender, as if to make up for being cross with Sherlock earlier. Sherlock sighed when John folded him into his arms under the covers. 

“John?”

“Hmmm?” John’s voice came muffled against his curls.

“I’m sorry I ruined everything today.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, love,” John said stroking a hand down his back. “The greatest Wizard in our generation doesn’t need to spend his summer making copies for the likes of Nigel Beedles.”

“I’m not that,” Sherlock protested. “I’m an idiot.”

“Hey, you’re a bloody genius, and I won’t have you talking crap about my boyfriend.”

Sherlock snuggled closer. “I just wanted to spend time with you.”

“And we will. Once this is done, we’ll have the rest of the summer together. It’s just that I promised Mum I’d finish the week.”

“I know. It’s fine, John.”

“I’ll miss you though.”

“Me . . .” Sherlock managed before John pulled him into a kiss that worked quite as well as an _Oblivate_ spell at scattering every worry from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please send me a message through the floo network if you liked my work. If that isn’t available, drop me a comment! XD


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock occupies himself amongst the Muggles, and John has a birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, great thanks to my betas, otp221b, and the-navel-treatment. I do appreciate their help!

***

It was hard on Sherlock watching John and his mother drive off the next morning, leaving him alone at the townhouse. John lingered in the foyer saying goodbye while his mum started the engine outside.

“You’ll be all right, then?” John caught both of Sherlock’s hands in his own.

“Of course I will.” 

“You’ve got some Muggle money?”

“Yes, I’m not five, John.” Sherlock snapped.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re not.” 

“I don’t mean to be cross.” Sherlock drew in a breath. “It’s not your fault I have to stay home.” 

“Look, it will only be a few hours. We’ll be back before you know it. Turn on the telly, or go out – whatever sounds best.” 

“All right.” 

“Come here, you.” John pulled his head down for a goodbye kiss that threatened to tip into something altogether more time consuming when Mrs. Watson honked the horn.

“Bye, love.” 

“Good-bye , John.” 

John looked so sad climbing into his mother’s Toyota that Sherlock plastered on a smile, waving from the door as they pulled out. The smile dropped as soon as they turned the corner. Sherlock went back inside and looked around the townhouse. The silence settled over him like a weight. Suddenly the idea of examining any strange Muggle devices, or watching something on the television held little appeal. Out it was then. Sherlock made sure he had all his essentials about him before setting off, locking the front door with the key that Mrs. Watson had given him. A sealing spell would have been so much easier, he thought as he tucked the key deep in a pocket where he wouldn’t lose it.

The neighborhood was quiet this early in the morning. A few cars pulled out of driveways, racing off to who knew where, but for now, he had the sidewalk alone. More pedestrians appeared at the main road, and Sherlock waited by a woman with a toddler, and two boys in hoodies at the bus stop. 

“Budgy, no!” The mother yelled at the small boy, grabbing him back when he wandered too close to the street.

It got Sherlock thinking. He worried that he might do or say any number of wrong things to out himself as a Wizard in Muggle space alone. He decided to pretend he was French for the rest of the day. If he did anything out of line, people could always blame it on his being foreign. He was of course only a quarter French, but no one had to know the actual truth of it.

When the big bus, covered with ads that didn’t move, squealed up to the kerb, Sherlock tilted his head, and asked the bus driver in a lilting accent, “Zeez bus, she go downtown, no?”

The driver shrugged and mumbled something almost unintelligible, but the mother smiled kindly at him as she pulled her son onto her hip. “Oh sure luv, it goes right by the shops, just get off at Winchester.”

“Zank you.” Sherlock smiled at her and tapped the fare card John had given him to the same spot she did. 

Sherlock got off and wandered along the street that he and John had been several times before, poking into some of the shops. He found any number of odd Muggle things for sale – bits of plastic in all shapes and colours, but without John along, it wasn’t nearly as much fun to browse. He had it in mind that he might pick up something for John’s birthday, and his grandmother’s next week, but nothing in particular caught his eye. 

He eventually bought a fizzy lemonade, a sandwich and a packet of crisps for lunch using a thick Parisian drawl, and ate them on a bench in a small park. Feeling a bit reckless then, he caught another bus without knowing where it went. If he got too far out, he reasoned, he could always find a quiet spot and apparate back to the Watsons’ home. It was interesting enough just eavesdropping on the Muggles sat near him on the bus as he watched the scenery sliding by.

“I tell you, Marge, I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“Bloody wanker, that one. With your own cousin.”

“I should have seen the signs. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

“You were too good for him, luv, too good.”

Sherlock sighed. Petty melodramas obviously occurred in the Muggle world as often as the magical one. He got off at the next stop, and surveyed the blocks of buildings, trying to decide which way to go next. With a shrug, he picked right and set off. He’d gone quite a distance from John’s house, and this area was looking rather dodgy. Sherlock had passed a pub, a check cashing place, and a small seedy-looking liquor shop, before he decided he might best find somewhere quiet, and pop back to John’s. He turned into the small lane behind the buildings, and stopped, quite startled at what he found there. 

A sign made of large glowing green letters hung in the air just above his head in the mouth of the alley. “Sale, sale, sale – this way!” it proclaimed with a flashing arrow underneath. Curiosity got the best of him, and Sherlock followed where it pointed. He knew he was going the right way when another sign popped up declaring “Don’t miss the savings!” with a left-facing arrow. He turned obligingly, passing an overflowing skip to discover “You’re almost there. Keep going for SAVINGS!” shimmering at eye-level. Sherlock was quite pleased when a few more paces delivered him to an old wooden door set back into a nondescript brick wall. Another notice appeared briefly as he stepped closer. “To enter, tap wand thrice.”

Sherlock spared a quick glance around, but found he was quite alone in the alley. He drew his wand, and tapped it smartly against the wood three times as instructed. The door unsealed itself with a snick as “Welcome friend!” appeared in a charming curliecued font. The words dissolved in a puff of smoke as Sherlock reached for the doorknob. Though it turned easily enough, the door stuck as he pushed, and he found himself leaning in with his shoulder to get through.

Sherlock stepped into a space that was much larger than it looked from the outside. At two stories tall, with a winding staircase to access the upper level, the place was packed with all manner of things filling its many display cases and wide wooden shelves. A sign hanging over a counter declared the shop “Wizzby’s Exotic Emporium.” Sherlock grinned widely as he looked about, he could practically smell the magic buzzing in the air. A number of Witches and Wizards browsing the wares glanced his way, but only a small bearded Wizard in a blue robe, obviously an employee, hurried over to greet him. 

“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” he said, sliding the large stand of brooms that Sherlock had moved to open the door, and a box of umbrellas to the side. “We haven’t had anyone use that entrance in years.”

“It’s no problem.” Sherlock shrugged his concern aside as he closed the door behind him.

“How may I help you, sir? Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” 

“Well, I’m looking for a couple of gifts, but I think I’ll just poke about – see what turns up.” 

“Certainly, sir. Just let me know if you need any assistance.” The clerk bowed him in before scuttling off.

After several weeks spent in the Muggle world, Sherlock enjoyed the opportunity to simply mill about with his own kind. A young woman with a number of small butterflies circling her head walked by, and he smiled at her without even meaning to. She returned the smile, her eyes raking over him before she continued to a shoe display.

The girl kept peering his way over her shoulder though, and Sherlock worried she thought he’d been on the pull. Oddly enough, he noticed that a number of others were giving him the side-eye as they passed by as well. He glanced down at his clothes then, and realized he was still dressed in high Muggle gear. He wore the track bottoms he’d gotten on his last visit, and an old tee he’d borrowed from John that had “Arsenals” plastered across the front. No wonder he was drawing attention. Sherlock nipped into the toilets, and transformed his clothes into an approximation of his best dark navy robe. After that, he blended in much more seamlessly, and continued his shopping in peace.

He picked out several packets of Wizard sweets he knew John liked, and moved through garden and housewares trying to find something Grand-mère might fancy. When he ended up at the jewelry display, he knew he’d found just the thing. 

“Pardon me.” He called the small Wizard over to unlock the case for him. Sherlock picked through a number of small jeweled boxes until he found one that played “Clare de Lune” when opened.

“Excellent choice.” The man smiled. “This one is guaranteed to hold six cubic metres of volume.”

“Fine, I’ll have it wrapped, please.” Sherlock said, idly glancing over the rest of the display. He stopped when a collection of shimmering stones caught his eye. They were stylized, roughly heart-shaped things, each flashing an intriguing set of colours. “What are those?” He asked tapping his finger on the glass above them.

“Ah, heart stones.” The clerk smiled, lifting the velvet-lined tray out of the case. He took one of the stones out, and held it up for Sherlock to see. When the man pressed lightly in the centre, the heart split neatly in half leaving two tear-drop shapes in his palm. “The halves call to each other once separated. Couples who have to spend time apart like them. Each wears one half of the stone, and it lets them feel where the other is. Also, when the halves get close enough together, they glow, like this.” He motioned to the beautifully pulsing hearts in the box.

“I’ll take that one.” Sherlock said pointing to a stone that glowed a lovely deep blue shot through with tiny traces of gold. It looked just like John’s eyes.

“That is a nice one.” The shop Wizard agreed. “Some like to have made into jewelry to wear for safe keeping. Perhaps you’d like them as pendants on a necklace?”

“No, I think that bracelets might suit though.” 

“Very good, sir. If you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll have that taken care of. Do you prefer silver or gold chains?”

“Gold, I think,” Sherlock said, imagining how the color would look against John’s honey-toned skin.

Sherlock amused himself by glancing through a rack of silly postcards as he waited, “Having a here time, wish you were lovely,” “I’d have written sooner, but my owl died – thankfully he got better,” before the man returned with his finished bracelets. They were quite lovely. Each tear drop half now nestled in a small casing attached to a linked chain.

“Yes, that will do nicely.” Sherlock nodded his approval, and the man wrapped them up along with the box for his grandmother.

“And how will you be paying today, sir?” 

When Sherlock pulled out his money purse, he realized it had Muggle money in it, but only a few knuts of Wizard coin jingling at the bottom. “Can I charge this, please?”

“Certainly, sir. Simply fill this out.” 

Even though he knew he had more than enough funds in his account at Gringotts, Sherlock carefully penned Mycroft’s information onto the page. He took a perverse satisfaction in knowing that charging the gifts to his brother would simultaneously annoy him, and let him know that Sherlock was alive and well.

“I hope everyone enjoys their gifts.” The clerk smiled, handing him his purchases in a purple sack with handles.

“Thank you, I’m sure they will.” 

“Here let me help you.” The man moved to clear a path for Sherlock back to the door he’d entered, but Sherlock waved him off. 

“No, don’t bother, I’ll apparate out.”

“Of course, sir. Thank you for shopping with us. Have a good afternoon.”

Sherlock nodded goodbye before moving to the short queue for the apparating platforms. The shop also featured a wide fireplace obviously on the Floo network as an elderly Witch appeared within holding her string shopping bags. She brushed a stray bit of soot from her skirt as she stepped down from the green flames. It was a shame the Watsons’ place didn’t have a proper fireplace he could use for travel, but then their home wasn’t so far that Sherlock couldn’t apparate there in a single pass. Sherlock watched the portly wizard ahead of him turn on the spot and disappear, and then it was his turn. Thankfully, Sherlock whirled only briefly before finding himself safely on the carpet in John’s family room. 

Sherlock had plenty of time to store his gifts in his trunk before John and his mum returned home. They bustled in with Indian takeaway, and a burst of fresh air. Sherlock accepted a hug from John, and moved to help him pull down plates and silverware to set the table. He had thought to tell him about the happy accident of stumbling on the Wizard shop that afternoon, but John was full of talk about the office, and a funny story that Donna had told him. Sherlock found himself mumbling, “I just browsed some shops.” when John finally asked how his day went. They ate dinner in the kitchen, moving to the living room to watch a show on the telly with Mrs. Watson afterwards.

“I missed you today.” John said once the lights were out, and they lay side by side in bed. He scooted closer to nibble at Sherlock’s ear. 

“I missed you too.” Sherlock huffed, stiffening slightly as he turned his head away.

“Oh don’t be grumpy,” John said, pressing soft kisses along his taut neck. “You’re better off out of that office, and not running stupid errands for sodding Nigel Beedles. Mum and I had quite a time of it today running interference, making sure he didn’t talk to Mrs. Kent about you leaving.”

“Oh, I didn’t think about that. Thank you.” Sherlock turned back to face him, an indistinct shape in the dark.

“Poor kitty. You were lonely today weren’t you?”

Sherlock rolled into John and nodded against his chest.

“Why don’t you go check out the library tomorrow? I think you’ll like it more than window shopping.” John lifted a hand to sift through Sherlock’s hair. “Seriously, you’ll find a lot of things you can’t find in a Wizard library there. That great Ravenclaw brain will be spinning.”

“All right.” Sherlock breathed a warm spot through John’s tee shirt.

“Are you tired?” John asked, a slight catch in his voice. 

“No.” Sherlock said surging up to tip John onto his back, finding his mouth in a needy kiss. John made a surprised noise, then wrapped his arms around Sherlock, and hung on.

***

It was a bit easier watching John and Mrs. Watson leave the next morning. “Look, we’ll see if we can’t come home a little early, okay?” John said, giving Sherlock a proper snog in the kitchen while his mum was upstairs. Sherlock giggled when John climbed onto his lap, and knocked the jam jar over with this elbow. John left his library card with Sherlock along with a hastily drawn map to reach the library before racing after his mum out the door. Sherlock waved from the front window watching as their car backed out of the driveway.

Sherlock found the library easily enough a few streets away. He spent a very good day browsing the books in the Muggle building, discovering that John was right, there were loads of things he’d never heard about there. Sherlock was almost reluctant to leave at the right time to meet John and Mrs. Watson for dinner. He did though, and enjoyed a quiet night at home cooking pasta, then playing a board game with John before bed. 

It still wasn’t fun watching John drive off their last morning apart, but Sherlock was happy enough to return to the library, and cram in as much reading as he could. A librarian came by the carrel where he sat surrounded by an absolute mountain of books at one point, and gently told him he _could_ check out books to take home if he wished. Sherlock told her that sadly he was just visiting, and would be leaving the area soon. 

John came home that night loaded down with cards, and a flower crown that some of the girls at the office had made him. “Mum let it slip that my birthday was tomorrow, and they had a bit of a send off and birthday party for me.” John shrugged. “Sherlock, you were right about Donna. She asked for my email address to keep in touch, and then tried to snog me in the hall by the loos.” 

“I’ll turn her into a toad.” Sherlock bristled, only half joking. 

“I told her I was already with someone. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more honest, but I let her know I wasn’t available.” 

“Well, that’s something.” Sherlock sniffed unhappily until John pulled him in, and dropped kisses all over his face until he laughed.

***

Sherlock woke before John on Saturday. He propped his chin over a bent elbow to watch John sleeping peacefully beside him. The sunlight filtering in through the blinds kissed the tips of his blond hair making him look more ethereal than solid.

“Morning.” John blinked awake, grinning lopsidedly when he found Sherlock studying him. 

“Happy birthday.” Sherlock smiled, leaning in to drop a kiss on his forehead.

“Wow, it’s finally here.” John sucked in a breath. “I’m FINALLY seventeen!” John whooped as he scrambled out of bed in just his pants, and bounded across the room. He rummaged through his chest of drawers before emerging victorious with his wand.

“Sherlock!” he said, turning round, looking slightly stunned. “I can finally do MAGIC outside of school.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “you can.”

“Ooh, what to do, what to do.” John tapped the tip of the wand against his chin, looking about the room as a maniacal gleam rose in his eyes.

For the next several minutes, John set himself to redecorating the bedroom. He turned the plain blue duvet into a sumptuous purple spread with gold tassels hanging off the sides. The pillows became fat cushions shaped like pastries. A plain desk chair became a fancy clawed-foot parlour chair, huge velvet curtains appeared to frame the windows while the star stickers he had stuck to the ceiling began pulsing in bright rainbow colours. 

“John, I had no idea you had such aspirations as an interior decorator.” 

“Hush, you,” John said, waving his wand and sending a light breeze to ruffle Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock leaned into the breeze with a smile. “You know you didn’t actually have to wait.” 

“What?” John asked, the wind cutting off as he dropped his wand. 

“The ministry doesn’t actually have a trace spell on each underage Wizard. There’s just a spell in place to monitor magic done in any Muggle households with an underage Witch or Wizard living there.” Sherlock rolled up to sitting, and crossed his legs under the covers. “With me visiting, Mycroft would have had the trace lifted.” He shrugged. 

“Damn. I could have been doing magic for weeks?” John wrinkled up his forehead.

“You HAVE been doing magic for weeks,” Sherlock said, folding back the covers to pat the empty space next to him. He shot John a glance from under half-dropped eyelids. “John, come back to bed.” 

“Oh. Yes.” John grinned, dropping his wand to the floor as he climbed back under the covers. Sherlock giggled, encased by John’s limbs, his earlobe held lightly between John’s teeth when a knock sounded at the door. 

“Yoo hoo! Boys! Are you awake? Is everyone decent?” Mrs. Watson’s voice came muffled from the hall.

“Oh, God.” John groaned, rolling off of him. “I forgot. Birthday breakfast in bed.”

They hastily righted the blankets before John called back. “Come in!”

Mrs. Watson bustled in the door bearing a heavy tray of breakfast things.

“Happy birthday, sweetie! My, look at what you’ve done with the place.” She stopped to glance around the sybaritic retreat that John had created in his bedroom. “Isn’t it fancy in here?”

“Thanks mum, just having a bit of fun.” John blushed as she set the tray across their laps and leaned over to buss the side of John’s cheek. “This is lovely,” he said, surveying the heaps of fry up, sliced fruit, and cups of tea. It looked enough for five not two.

“It looks delicious, thank you,” Sherlock added shyly.

“My pleasure. But don’t take too long, you two. We’ll need to be ready to go in an hour and a half.” 

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows. “Where are we off to?”

“That play downtown I wanted to take you to? Richard III? I just got us matinee tickets at the last minute.” Mrs. Watson beamed at them.

“Brilliant.” John lifted his tea cup with a smile. 

“Yes, and Harry texted. She’s able to come by this evening. I thought we’d get Chinese take-away from your favorite place for dinner?”

“Oh, right – the Hunan Palace, excellent! Thanks mum. For breakfast, and everything!” 

“MMmfff,” Sherlock agreed stuffing in a mouthful of bacon.

“You’re welcome, honey.” Mrs. Watson cast a fond glance over the two of them before pulling the door closed behind her. 

***

The play had been very exciting, and they were still talking about it when they pulled into the Watsons’ driveway. Sherlock had been amazed at the many special effects used – the blood squirting over the audience as a cast member’s throat was “cut,” the person drowned in a fish tank, and both of them reappearing hale and whole for a bow at curtain call. John and Mrs. Watson had tried to explain ways Muggles created the illusion of magic all the way home. 

“It’s easier to just do the magic.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I agree,” John’s mum said, “but sometimes people don’t have a choice. They have to take the long way around.”

The sound of the front door banging open reached them as Mrs. Watson lifted the last steaming carton from the take-away bag. Sherlock would have known that particular heavy tread anywhere he thought as a figure in black boots, ripped leggings, and hair dyed an interesting shade of magenta burst into the dining room. Harry Watson had arrived of course.

“Johnny!” Harry cried, dropping her bag to the floor. She grinned ear to ear as John rose to give her a hug.

“Hiya, Harry. All right?” John’s voice went a bit higher as his sister grabbed him about the middle. 

“Happy birthday, Short Stuff!” she crowed, squeezing him tighter. 

“Taller than you now,” John squeaked out.

“Harriet, excellent timing.” Mrs. Watson smiled at her. “Pull up a chair, luv, I got extra of those pork dumplings you like.”

“Muuuum,” Harry said, releasing John to flop into an empty seat. “I’m vegetarian now. I know I TOLD you.” 

“Oh, sorry, did you? Well, you can have my spring roll, and there’s bean curd.”

“It all looks fabulous,” John said sitting down again, rubbing his hands together.

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Tall, Dark, and Posh,” Harry said, directing her attention toward Sherlock. She tilted her head to the side fixing him with a pointed look.

“Hello, Harry.” Sherlock returned her unwavering stare.

“Decided to stick around, have you? Haven’t decided the Watsons are too chav for you yet?” 

“Harry!” Mrs. Watson chided automatically as she set plates around the table.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock said lightly. “I enjoy being here very much.”

Harry snorted, and broke the stare-off, leaning forward to snag a fortune cookie from the pile of sauce packets and things Mrs. Watson had dumped on the table.

“Oh, Harry, lay off Sherlock,” John said. “It’s my birthday. You have to behave, also you’re supposed to eat the cookies at the end.”

“Life is short, eat dessert first.” Harry grinned, cracking the cookie in two to fish out the paper fortune. 

“All right, what’s it say?” John demanded. “You have to tell.” 

Harry smoothed the paper down. “Gather many friends around you. . .” she said popping the cookie bits into her mouth, “. . . in bed.” She finished with a crunch. “It’s always better if you add the ‘in bed’ part.” 

Sherlock and John giggled as Mrs. Watson raised an eyebrow at them. “Very funny,” she said. “Harry, be a dear and get the ginger beer from the cupboard, please.”

Dinner was a casual affair as they passed the cartons around and heaped their plates with the salty, greasy food. The restaurant had included some chopsticks, but Sherlock was relieved when forks were passed out, and he didn’t have to worry about making the awkward things work to get food to his mouth. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to decorate, John.” Mrs. Watson sighed as she glanced about the walls. I meant to get some balloons up, but the time got away from me.”

“DECORATIONS? Did someone say DECORATIONS?” John asked wiping his mouth on a napkin. “Oh, you needn't worry about that, mum!” He leapt up to dash from the dining room. 

“Oh good, John’s finally gone mental,” Harry commented around a forkful of rice. 

“Hmmm. I’m almost afraid to ask.” Mrs. Watson chuckled catching Sherlock’s eye. 

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as John returned triumphant with wand in hand.

“Allow me to provide decorations,” he said, grandly sweeping the wand before him. In short order, John had showers of cool sparks spiraling down from the ceiling, a small flock of purple birds flying above their heads, and glowing red Chinese lanterns like ones they’d seen at the restaurant floating peacefully in the corners.

“Wow.” Harry’s mouth dropped open as she leaned back to avoid a bird zooming past her nose. “So what’s this all about, I thought that school didn’t let you do magic at home?” 

“I’m seventeen now, Hair-bear. I’m an adult. I can do magic wherever I please.” John grinned at her. “Well, as long as it isn’t in public where Mugg . . . um non-Magical folks might see,” he added.

“YOU, an adult?” Harry scoffed. “At seventeen?”

“It’s quite true,” Sherlock said. “In the Wizarding world, turning seventeen is considered reaching your majority.”

“Bloody hell, that’s amazing.” Harry whistled, watching the birds now chasing themselves about the room. 

“Bravo, John.” His mum clapped her hands at the display, and John took a bow. 

“It is nice work,” Sherlock agreed, “but just . . . .” He pulled his own wand out, and used it to slow the flock of purple birds now careening maniacally around them in a tightening circle. With a flick, he sent them off to a lazy, repeating circuit around the ceiling. 

“Brilliant. Thanks!” John crowed. 

“Any time.” Sherlock smiled. 

For dessert, Mrs. Watson produced a large glazed strawberry-topped cake that she’d smuggled in from a bakery earlier. She rose to turn down the electric lights. “No magic on this one, please, lads,” she warned as she lit the small collection of candles on the cake with a match. 

Sherlock added his baritone in when Harriet and Mrs. Watson sang John that funny birthday song. It wasn’t something anyone had ever sung in Sherlock’s family, but he’d heard it often enough from the Muggle-born students at school. John looked so pleased at his serenade, his gorgeous face glowing warm by the candlelight, that it utterly melted something in Sherlock. He debated the appropriateness of grabbing John to snog him right then and there in front of his family. Thankfully John spared him any more deliberation. As soon as he blew out the candles, John reached over and dragged Sherlock down for a kiss.

“What did you wish for, Johnny?” Harry teased him. “More of this one?” She nodded toward Sherlock once John released him with a light squeeze to the back of his neck.

“You know I can’t tell.” John laughed, turning toward her. “Wish won’t come true if I do.” 

After they’d shared thick slices of the cake around, and moaned about how good it was, Mrs. Watson declared it time for presents. Sherlock dashed back upstairs to find the things he’d gotten for John from inside his trunk. Suddenly feeling shy, he slipped the small box holding the bracelets into his pocket, and carried the bag of sweets downstairs.

John pulled the wrapping paper from his gifts, exclaiming at each one. He thanked his mum for some mystery books, and a new quill set, and groaned at Harry for a pair of red mesh underpants that he quickly shoved back into the bag.

“Here,” his mum said handing him a card that had come in the mail. “It’s from your nan.” 

John opened the card with dinosaurs on the front, and pulled out a fiver from inside. “Excellent. I can get a coffee,” he said with a smirk.

“Lucky!” Harry swiped the card to look at the T-Rex wearing a party hat on the front. “I only got a pound in my card this year.”

When he got to Sherlock’s collection of Wizard sweets, John grinned in delight, and made his mum and Harry both try a pepper imp. They shrieked as hot steam blew from their ears.

“Thank you, everyone, this was lovely.” John looked around the table fondly, reaching out to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. “I couldn’t have asked for a nicer birthday.”

Later, when Mrs. Watson was in the loo, Harry nudged John as they carried plates and leftovers back to the kitchen. “Come on Johnny, what say we get out of here, and have some real fun tonight?”

John looked suspiciously at his sister. “What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a queer bar not too far that doesn’t card for underage. It’s a blast – great music, you’ll love it.”

She glanced at Sherlock pulling him in, “Come on Sherl, what do you say? A chance to observe Muggles up close and personal, but with less _old_ people around.” Harry waggled her eyebrows. 

Sherlock had to admit it sounded interesting, but John groaned, and shook his head.

“Aw, Harry the last time I went out with you, you drank so much you got sick, and then you drove off and left me at that taco place.” 

“No, it won’t be like that.” Harry tipped her stack of plates into the sink. “I won’t drink at all. Well, maybe just one little pint, but nothing more. Scout’s honour. Come on, Johnny, it’s your birthday. I’d like to take you out. Some friends of mine are playing live. I promise I’ll take you and Loverboy home as soon as you want to go.”

“It does sound interesting.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John. 

“Yeah, come on Johnny, please, please?” Harry did a convincing imitation of a puppy then, curling her hands up before her as she whined and butted her head against John. “Hmm? Hmm?” 

“God, Harry stop.” John laughed, shoving her away. “All right, all right, we’ll go.”

“Go?” Mrs. Watson asked on her way back into the kitchen, “Go where?”

“Oh, Harry has a band she wants us to see,” John said.

“Is that a good idea?” John’s mum hedged. “I mean tomorrow is your last day here . . .”

“Mum, I promise I’ll have the ickle babies home before midnight. REALLY.” Harry turned pouty eyes toward her mother. “It’s John’s BIRTHDAY.”

“Oh, all right.” Mrs. Watson agreed, but her mouth pressed into a line. “Not too late though.” 

“Thanks, mum, you’re a peach.” Harriet kissed her mother on the cheek.

John and Sherlock went upstairs to wash and “change their shirts at least for Godsake” as Harry commanded. 

After John pulled on a clean shirt and started on the buttons, Sherlock pulled the small box from his pocket and held it out shyly. “I had one more thing to give you, John, but I wanted to do it in private.”

“Oh, what’s this then?” John’s face lit up as he took the gift.

“Open it,” was all Sherlock would say. 

John pulled apart the paper that covered it, and cracked open the box. He sucked in a breath. “Love, this is beautiful.” John lifted the pulsing joined stone out of the box trailing its two chains. “What is it exactly?”

“Just watch.” Sherlock took it from him, and pressed lightly on the stone. When the heart split in half, Sherlock held one part out to John. “It’s a heart stone set. The two sides will call to each other so you can always find the person wearing the other half. They glow when they get close.” Sherlock slipped his over his wrist, and watched as John did the same. 

“Sherlock.” John turned wet eyes his way. “How did you . . .” 

“I stumbled across a Wizard place while I was browsing the shops the other day. I didn’t expect it at all.” 

“Around here, a Wizard shop? Fancy that!” 

“Well, it was a ways out. I took the bus before I found it.” 

“That’s, well that’s just lovely.” John looked down at the glowing teardrop-shaped stone on his wrist while his mouth did something funny. “Thank you.” He whispered looking up finally. 

His face was so open, and warm, his eyes such dark wells of blue, that Sherlock had to pull him close. “You’re welcome, John,” he breathed into his love’s hair as John’s arms wound around his waist.

“Hey you two.” Harry pounded on the door. “Hurry up in there. I don’t want to be old and grey before we get out of here.” 

Harry looked them both over once they emerged, and declared them not quite fit for public consumption. She dragged them into the loo, and glopped product into their hair until John had funny spikes all along the top of his head, and Sherlock’s curls looked magnificent. John put his foot down at makeup, but Sherlock delighted in letting Harry have her way with him. She lined his eyes in black, added glittery shadow under his brows, and did something over his cheeks and lips.

“Gorgeous.” Harry said stepping back to view her handiwork, while John nodded, looking slightly stunned. 

They piled into Harry’s small car, waving to a slightly worried Mrs. Watson who watched from the door as they backed out. Harry’s car made some odd grinding noises until she got it into gear, but then it seemed to be functioning well enough. 

Harry produced some cigarettes, and easily slipped one out of the packet into her mouth as she drove. “Who wants a fag?” she asked shaking the package around the car. 

“Harry, I don’t smoke.” John waved it off. 

“Well, I . . .” Sherlock began when John cut him off. “And Sherlock doesn’t smoke either.” 

“Good, nasty habit,” Harry said flicking open a lighter that she found in the glove box. “Best not to start," she said, lighting the tip of her cigarette. She inhaled deeply, rolling her window down to blow smoke out into the night.

The club they were off to ended up being farther away than expected, and it took many debated twists and turns before they arrived. As Harry promised, they were waved in without needing any ID. Soon enough, they joined the crowd inside jostling under the coloured lights and loud music. The place was called "The Stoplight,” and featured a number of traffic lights flashing around the walls in some quirky décor theme.

“Why are those lights inside?” Sherlock asked Harry, curious about all the odd things Muggles managed to do.

“Well, it’s from back in the day when homosexuality was punishable by death, and they used to flash the lights red as a warning when the coppers showed up - telling everyone to get out if they didn’t want a beheading.” 

“Harry, that is a load of bollocks. Stop telling Sherlock such rubbish,” John complained.

Harry just snorted a laugh. “Hey, who wants a drink? I’m off for a beer.” 

“Get us two ciders,” John told her before Sherlock had a chance to say anything. “Come on,” John put a hand to his back. “I think I see a table free over there.” 

Harry took so long coming back that John left Sherlock at the table to go search for her. Sherlock was fine with this as it left him ample time for people watching. The club was a fascinating anthropological plunge into the mating habits of the average queer Muggle. Sherlock watched the groups twisting and flailing together on the dance floor, as the lone wolves skirted the edges, watching hungrily. 

The females tended to group in clumps around the main bar and at the tables. The males, on the other hand, took up much of the dance floor, and the smaller bar where a fit blond man with no shirt was cheerfully pouring orders at an astonishing speed. Sherlock found himself following the movements of the barkeep, his arm muscles shifting as he hefted bottles, and worked the taps. It was somewhat mesmerizing.

“Ello, luv, you look new. First time here?”

Sherlock had been so engrossed in his observations that he hadn’t noticed the newcomer until he'd taken the seat beside him. The stranger had close-cropped hair, a tight black tee, and an earring with a skull dangling from one ear. 

“Yes, I’m just visiting . . .” 

“Glad I caught you here then. It’s always the same old faces, generally. Fancy a beer?”

Sherlock noticed the man was in possession of two brown bottles. He extended one towards Sherlock. 

“Oh, I don’t know . . .”

“Come on, luv, I can’t drink them both, now can I?”

“All right.” Sherlock couldn’t fault his logic. He accepted the bottle with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Cheers.” The bloke tapped his bottle against Sherlock’s before taking a swig.

Sherlock took a drink. He’d had beer a few times before, and liked some of it well enough. This beer though was awful and watery, and Sherlock only swallowed a bit of it to be polite. He set the bottle down on the table. 

“Name’s Connor,” his new friend said, extending a hand. 

“Sherlock,” he said, grasping it to shake. 

“Sherrrrlock?” The man rolled his name around his mouth like a sweet. “That’s different.” He kept hold of Sherlock’s hand, using it to tug him closer as he planted a kiss to the back of it. “So what brings you to our lowly part of town, Sherlock?” A wide smile spread over his not unattractive face.

The man had moved dangerously close, his thumbs caressing over Sherlock’s hand, as the smell of him danced over Sherlock nose, a pungent mixture of cologne, alcohol, and musky sweat. Sherlock blinked at him and swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words. 

“Ahem.” A very loud throat clearing sounded near Sherlock shoulder. They looked up to find John looming darkly over them. 

“I got your cider, Sherlock,” John said, “but I see you already have a drink.” John threw his shoulders back, seeming to double in size as he glared at the stranger. “Would you mind removing your hands from my boyfriend, please?” His voice had shifted to something heavy and low, and the man dropped Sherlock’s hand instantly.

“My apologies,” he said, raising both palms as he backed away. “Didn’t know he was taken.” He grabbed his beer from the table as he hurried off.

“Well, what was that all about?” John plopped into the recently vacated chair. “I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

“He just showed up, John. It’s not as if I encouraged him.” Sherlock took the bottle of cider that John pushed his way. He took a swallow finding it much more to his liking.

“I know.” John sighed. “Bloody tank of pirahnas in here.” He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and squeezed. “Look, I found Harry, but she was chatting up . . .”

“Hello!” Harry appeared before them as if conjured, bringing a fresh-faced girl with short, spiky dark hair in her wake. “This is Clara.”

“Hiya.” Clara waved her fingers at them as Harry pulled out a chair for her. 

Harry introduced John and Sherlock, then proceeded to ignore them as she focused on Clara, leaning in close to catch her every word. Sherlock drank more of his cider, enjoying the sour-sweet tingle as it slid down his throat. John lifted his own bottle to his mouth and Sherlock smiled, pleased to see the heart stone bracelet settled around his wrist when his sleeve shifted back. He reached down to touch its companion wrapped around his own forearm. It was soothing to trace his finger over it. They relaxed, sipping, yelling over the frenetic music when they needed to until the beat finally shifted into something sultry and slow.

John’s ears perked right up. “Oooh, Motown.” He cried, “Come on, sweet, dance with me.” He nudged Sherlock with his elbow.

“John, I don’t know. . .”

“Yes, come on, you can.” 

Sherlock loved to dance, but the kind of dancing he knew involved specific steps, and a different sort of music altogether. This free-form flailing about was a completely different animal, and he had no idea where to even start. John smiled so fetchingly though, tugging him toward the swaying crowd, that Sherlock gave up resisting and followed.

John found them a small free space on the dance floor. “Come on, love, just watch me.”

John dropped his hands to Sherlock’s hips, pulling them close to his own as he led them into a rolling arc. Sherlock followed John’s lead, and soon enough felt he was catching on. He relaxed as they swayed together, moving apart for more arm swinging. Sherlock watched the dancers around them, copying moves that looked promising. He figured he was doing something right when John sent him an utterly scorching look in reward. Sherlock grinned and threw himself into the beat. They stayed out, dancing several more songs in a row. A trickle of sweat ran between his shoulder blades, and he pushed his fringe back from his forehead when John touched his arm and tipped his head toward their table. Sherlock nodded in agreement, and they made their way from the dancing mob to find Harry still deep in conversation with Clara. Sherlock’s bottle of cider had warmed, growing sweaty with condensation, but he gulped the rest of it down grateful for the moisture.

“Way to go, Sherlock. You sexy beast!” Harry yelled his way. Sherlock flushed hotly.

“You were lovely.” John’s mouth moved right against his ear, continuing a path to press kisses along his jawline. Sherlock closed his eyes, and shivered, feeling the pounding of the music, and the pressure of John’s lips on his skin washing over him. He felt much more woozy than one cider should have left him.

The pounding music on the sound system cut out suddenly leaving their ears ringing in its absence, and John pulled away. “You feckin’ CUNT!” someone cried out across the room into the sudden silence. “Erm . . . sorry.” 

“Good evening, beautiful people!” an amplified voice boomed out. “Are you having fun tonight?” Sherlock turned as a few people cheered, to find the source of the question was a man at a mic on the narrow stage by the dance floor. Four women in various bits of black spandex and leather had gathered behind him. They fiddled with musical instruments, obviously readying them to play. 

“I said are you having FUN TONIGHT?” The announcer called again, and this time, the crowd roared in reply. 

“That’s better!” He grinned over the heads painted different colours as the overhead lights swung across them. “Ladies, Gents, and others, I’d like you to put your hands together and give it up for the one, the only . . .” he threw his arms wide, “. . . FIRETOWN!”

Electric guitars screeched to life as the drummer pounded out an opening riff. The lead singer, a woman with teal-green hair, grabbed her mic, and shouted something unintelligible into it. The crowd yelled its approval as more people poured onto the dance floor to nod and raise up their bottles as the band roared to an ear-splitting volume.

Beside them, Clara added to the cacophony, clapping wildly and shrieking. They sat, watching the show until the band finally announced a break. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he disliked the music for the sheer volume of it or the discordant sounds, but it definitely wasn’t his favourite. Clara nipped out quickly for the loo, and Harry looked after her, almost calf-eyed as she watched her walking away until the crowd swallowed her up. 

“She’s a cute one,” John said nudging Harry. He took a last swallow of his drink. “You two going out?” 

“I wish.” Harry sighed. “She’s with Jamie, the drummer in the band.” She nodded back toward the stage.

“Tough luck.” John blew out a breath. “That one has massive arms. She could definitely take you down in a fight.” John reached over to wind an arm around Sherlock’s middle, pulling him closer for a quick smack on the side of his neck. Sherlock smiled, and wrapped his own arm around John.

“Oh stuff it.” Harry coloured, and took another pull from her bottle. “Hey.” She considered the two of them more closely then, a gleam rising in her eye. “You two nobs are grown-up magic people. Maybe you could do something for me. How about a love spell? Make Clara fall for me?”

John dropped his arm from around Sherlock to lean closer to her. “Oh, Harry.” He groaned shaking his head. “No, we can’t, really. Besides, most love spells are unethical – the ones that really work. It’s taking free will away from people. Just . . .no. And on a Muggle? Double no.”

“Oh, what’s the point of having Wizards in the family if they can’t help you out when you need it,” Harry growled, folding her arms over her chest.

“Harry, keep your voice down,” John snapped.

“All right, fine. At least go get me another beer, huh?” 

“Fine.” John agreed glancing at Sherlock before he left. “Sherlock, another cider?”

“Okay.” Sherlock smiled at him.

Sherlock watched John’s jeans-clad behind as he walked toward the bar until he was out of sight. He turned back to find Harry studying him. 

“Johnny said you won awards at that school, and a job making potions.” Harry let one side of her mouth quirk up. “I bet you know how to mix a proper love spell, yeah?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he considered her. “Yes, I do. Several in fact.”

“We could make a trade. I could get you a whole bag of pot for a spell.” 

“Harry, John’s right.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s a world of trouble putting spells on unsuspecting non-Magic people. It’s not worth it.”

“That’s it? Nothing?” Harry smacked a hand to the table. “Come on Sherlock – I thought we were friends. You and John have each other, and I’m all alone. I’m dying here. Please?” She tilted her head to the side, looking so much like John that Sherlock couldn’t help softening toward her. 

“Well, there is something I could do – something simple.” He shrugged. “I could put an attraction glamour on you. It would only last the night, and it wouldn’t affect anyone who wouldn’t normally be interested in you. It would however boost the volume a bit for those already keen.”

“Oh God yes, that, please. PLEASE, Sherlock. I would owe you big time,” Harry begged. “Will it take long? Will it hurt?”

“Nope, just sit still.” Sherlock slipped his wand out of his pocket and waved it under the table in Harry’s direction. _“Speciosa,”_ he whispered. Only the tiniest flicker of light washed over her, easily attributed to the many flashing lights in the club. Harry’s face however took on a pleasing glow, her eyes seemed to widen a bit, as her lovely lips curved into a smile. “Is that it?” she asked. 

“That’s it,” Sherlock agreed repocketing his wand.

John joined them shortly thereafter juggling three bottles in his hands that he passed around. He smiled kindly at Harry as he handed her the beer. “Hey, did your friend want one too?”

Clara showed back up then, and nearly stopped in her tracks when her gaze fell on Harry. Her eyes flew wide, as her mouth settled into a perfect circle.

“Oh, she can have this one,” Harry said, sliding the beer towards Clara. “Fancy another?”

“Yes, thanks so much, Harry.” Clara took the bottle from her, all the while keeping her eyes trained on Harry’s face. “Erm, would you like to dance?” 

“Love to,” Harry said, rising to swing an arm over Clara’s shoulders, leading her toward the dance floor. She glanced back to wink at Sherlock. 

“That Harry.” John shook his head fondly after her. “She can be a pain, but she’s a good egg, ya know?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed taking a swig from his cider. “She grows on you.”

The band started again with a flurry of noise. John reached over to thread his fingers into Sherlock's, pulling their joined hands over to rest on his denim-covered thigh. Sherlock let the contact soothe him as the discordant music washed over them. The musicians were finally winding down for the night when Harry resurfaced by their table. John grinned widely at her, saluting her with his bottle. “Hiya Harry. What’s up?” 

“Look, can you two magic your way home or something?” She leaned close to whisper. “Clara’s asked me back to hers, and I want to get going.” 

“Yeah, sure, no worries.” John said, rising to draw Harry into a hug. “Thanks for coming for my birthday, sis, and taking us out. Really appreciate it.” 

“Fine, fine.” Harry patted John’s back a few times, then pushed him off, working herself free. “Don’t mention it, little bro.”

When John made to pull her into another embrace, Harry grabbed his arms to keep him at bay. “Hey have a good time at Sherlock’s. I’ll see you later, all right?” 

“Okay, Hair-bear. Bye. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He grinned widely.

“Won’t make any promises.” She smiled as she released him, stepping back. “Bye wanker. Bye Sherlock,” She called before disappearing into the crowd. 

Sherlock found himself smiling broadly, and waving after her, not completely immune to the effects of her charm himself.

The band crashed its way to a finale, and after the required applause, another canned dance tune rolled out over the sound system.

“Whew, well, what say we call it an evening too?” John said, stretching his back. “About ready to go?”

“Yes, let’s.” Sherlock said, shifting his feet on the slightly sticky floor. “I think I’ve had enough of FIRETOWN.” He threw his hands wide as he named the band.

“Yeah. I don’t know if they were really any good, but they were certainly loud, hmmm?” John chuckled. “It’s good to have something going for you.”

They left the bar, and found a dark spot to apparate home behind an office supply store a few doors down. “Hold on tight,” Sherlock said extending his left arm. “This will feel a bit disorienting as a side passenger.”

“Okay,” John said wrapping his hands over Sherlock’s arm. “I’m ready.”

Focusing on the Watson’s house, Sherlock moved forward, pulling John along with him.

“Glurp.” John gagged as they landed on the rug in the foyer. 

“Hey there.” Mrs. Watson appeared from the kitchen, a pink dressing gown cinched about her waist. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Ah, well, we’re back.” John rubbed at his forehead looking a bit green. 

“I hope you didn’t drink too much.” She shook her head. “And Harry, where is she?” She looked about.

“Found a friend to go home with. You know Harry.” John shrugged. 

“Hmmm.” Mrs. Watson's lips thinned. “I do. Well, I’m glad some of my chickens made it home.” 

“No worries Mum, go to sleep, we’re fine. I think we’ll just grab a drink.” John waved a hand toward the kitchen. He managed a wan smile as his mum leaned in to drop a kiss to his cheek. 

“All right. Good night John, Sherlock.” She lifted a hand to squeeze Sherlock’s upper arm on her way to the stairs.

“Good night, Mrs. Watson.” 

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, watching as he yanked open the fridge. 

“Ugh, I feel wonky. Is it always like that – apparating?” He reached in to pull out a fizzy drink. “Want one?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m fine, and apparating is much easier once you learn how to do it yourself.” 

“Well, I can’t wait.” John shook his head. “Side-apparating is horrid.” He popped open his can, and took a long swallow of ginger ale.

Sherlock watched John’s adam’s apple bob as he drank. Such a lovely neck Sherlock thought, licking his lips. He wondered how it might taste under his tongue. It occurred to him then that he really should tell John about the charm he’d placed on Harry. A niggling worry stopped him though. How much would John disapprove? Sherlock couldn’t be sure. On the plus side, Harry’s charmed state wouldn’t last long. Most magic had a finite shelf life, and this charm was a small thing. Still, John might want to know . . .

Sherlock was pulled from his churning thoughts by a sudden noise, something like a muffled drum beat, coming from nearby.

“What the . . .?” John startled at it too. Setting his can on the bench, John led them across the hall to the dining room. The Chinese lanterns still glowed dully in the corners, but his light showers had finished leaving only the small purple birds circling the room. Their flight path had devolved into an erratic wobble, and they were now smacking drunkenly into the doors to the conservatory on each pass. 

John pushed the doors open, and the birds escaped into the larger space beyond. John and Sherlock stepped into the unlit room after them. The conservatory smelled rich and humid, pots of plants barely visible all around them in the dark. The small birds had a faint glimmer to them though, and could easily be tracked as they careened around the conservatory bumping crazily into walls and windows. 

“Silly things,” John said looking up at them. “Well, time to bid them farewell, I think.” 

John pulled his wand out, and waved it over his head. _“Termino.”_ The birds snuffed out instantly, leaving them alone in the dark. 

John turned to him. “Sherlock, thank you so much, love, really. I think this was my best birthday ever, having you here.”

“Thank you, John.” 

John slipped closer, coming onto his toes for a kiss. It started chastely enough, his mouth bumping lightly against Sherlock’s. One or the other of them pressed in though, hands slid around to grip the backs of shirts, and things turned molten quickly.

“Your birthday doesn’t have to be quite over,” Sherlock mumbled as they came up for air.

“Hmmm?” He could feel John’s smile against his lips. 

Sherlock pulled away a bit. “Come to bed and I’ll show you . . . and maybe you can wear those red pants Harry gave you?” 

“Oh, well, there’s an offer I’m not about to refuse.”

Sherlock twined his fingers with John’s and tugged him back toward the light of the house, grinning all the way.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kudos and comments are a like a patronus blowing away the Dementors! Happy thoughts! Happy thoughts!


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spend time in France for good times and bad . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skeletal sweets and blood lollies (in honor of the witching season) to my two lovely betas, otp221b, and the-navel-treatment for their fabulous help in spiffing up this chapter. 
> 
> So sorry it was three months since my last update! Real life - meh. I hate when it gets in the way of fic writing! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Author's Note: Soooo many thanks for the French translation work from a lovely reader - Mathilde. My mangled, Google-translated French might read a bit smoother now! Merci!!!

***

“This is it.”

John watched as Sherlock disappeared into a small gap between the densely-packed bushes ahead. Glancing about to find only deserted country road behind him, John ducked in after. He pushed through the greenery, nearly overwhelmed by the thick sweet scent that enveloped him within. 

“Lilacs.” Sherlock called back as they brushed aside the fat purple blossoms to emerge on the other side.

“Oh, this is lovely,” John said, dusting himself off as he surveyed the flower garden simply bursting with colour before them. He glanced back the way they’d come. The bushes looked even taller than they had on the other side, as impenetrable as a maze wall.

“Grand-mère likes her privacy.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“I can see that,” John said. “Come here, you’ve got . . .” He motioned to Sherlock’s head, and the taller boy obligingly dipped down to let John knock away stray petals that had settled into his dark curls. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, sighing impatiently until John had finished.

“The house is this way,” Sherlock said with a jerk of his chin, setting off toward a small path winding up the incline ahead. 

“Lead on.” John smiled, hitching his rucksack higher up one shoulder to follow.

It had been a long day of traveling. 

John’s mum had driven them into London that morning and dropped them off at a tube stop. Sherlock had been bursting with curiosity about the train system, and John had promised to give him a tour. After quick hugs, and an apology again about how things at the office had gone, John’s mum had waved good-bye as they descended into the station.

The tube had been its usual collection of city suits, students, and foreigners either visiting or come to stay babbling in their various accents and languages. Sherlock stared hard at a boy with a collection of piercings simply covering his ears and face until John nudged him, wrapping their fingers together to distract him. John had to explain all the advert posters hung around the carriage, and even then, Sherlock still frowned, declaring them ridiculous. 

They’d emerged at Victoria station, but rather than enter the section to the busy Muggle train hub, climbed the stairs back to street level. Sherlock took over, leading John through a number of turns until they reached a quiet side street. When Sherlock spotted a red phone booth marked with a collection of silver stars, he bustled John inside. John was only momentarily surprised at how much roomier the box was on the inside. 

“Are we calling someone?” John asked, puzzled when Sherlock lifted the receiver. 

“Nope.” Sherlock smiled, turning to speak into the phone “Westside Portkey Station, please.” 

“Very good, sir,” a lilting female voice said from somewhere near the ceiling as the booth began the unsettling sensation of sinking into the ground like a lift.

“What if someone sees?” John glanced quickly about the windows as they moved downward. 

“Relax, John. It’s spelled." Sherlock shrugged as he replaced the phone. "The Muggles won’t see anything but an empty booth.” 

The doors opened into a bustling space, no less crowded than the tube stations had been, but filled with a much wider-range of eccentric individuals dashing about. A witch in electric-green robes pulling two children behind her nearly collided with them as they stepped out. 

“Oops, pardon,” she said, scurrying around them. “Damion, come on.” She scolded the smaller one crossly, tugging on his arm. “We’ll miss the portkey if you don’t hurry up.”

“But muuuuum, I wanted a pumpkin lolleeeee,” he wailed as they moved away into the crowd. 

Sherlock led John through the shifting flow of travellers to the queue to buy their tickets. John made to take out his wallet, but Sherlock stopped him. “You got the tube cards, this is on me.” 

They stopped next at a small café to buy tea and cups of soup for lunch. John enjoyed people watching, amused as a half-giant, a vampire, and a collection of mysterious, well-shrouded figures made their way past them in a matter of minutes. Luggage floated above the ground, nudged along by its owners, and one elderly gentleman bounced along as if on springs making his way through the crowded station. The susurrus of sound bouncing off the brick walls and high arched ceilings should have been deafening, but it was strangely muted as if heard from a very far distance away. The magical world made the tube look tame.

“Bordeaux, final call for Bordeaux leaving from gate 12,” a voice sounded briskly from overhead.

“Come on, John, that’s us,” Sherlock said, urging them back out into the flow of foot traffic after they binned their rubbish.

They found an alcove with the number “12” affixed over it easily enough. They were the only passengers waiting besides a mustached man with a deep accent. He greeted them awkwardly in English, but when Sherlock answered him in French, the two were soon babbling away together. John decided it was as good as any time to try the language spell he’d been working on. Muttering a few words, he swished his wand beside his head.

 _“ . . . the fishing is good there this time of year,”_ the man said.

 _“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”_ Sherlock nodded politely. He glanced back at John and raised an eyebrow, a sudden question in his eyes. _“John, did you . . .”_

John nodded proudly. “Oui.” Before he could say more, they were interrupted by a witch in a black uniform robe bustling in.

“Tickets, please. Tickets for Bordeaux.”

After sorting them out, the woman led them past a curtain where their portkey waited. It turned out to be nothing more than an old cricket bat resting on a small raised platform. John smiled as they each took their places, resting a hand on some part of it. 

“Wait, wait, please.” A pretty young witch with wild, curly brown hair, and a big striped bag bouncing over her shoulder waved a ticket as she rushed to join them. 

“Claudette.” Sherlock’s face broke into a rare wide smile at the sight of her.

“Sherlock!” She grinned in reply.

“Miss, please try to arrive ten minutes before departure time.” The attendant frowned as she took her slip.

“Sorry, sorry.” The girl sidled in next to Sherlock to wrap her hand over the bat’s handle.

“Good day.” The man with the mustache greeted her, and she nodded in reply. 

“Ladies, and gentlemen, please maintain firm contact with your portkey.” The witch in the black uniform announced, glancing at the large pocket watch in her hand. 

“Claudette, I didn’t know you were in England,” Sherlock exclaimed turning toward the young woman.

“Your portkey is departing in 10, 9, 8 . . . “ 

“Didn’t you hear? I got a job in London.” 

“No, I didn't know that." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 

"Yeh, I've been at Berkin and Quirk since March." 

"What exactly . . .” Sherlock began, and all went dark as the portkey whisked them away.

John gasped at the odd sensation, feeling as if he’d been hooked just behind his belly button and tugged through a long tube the size of a keyhole. When he managed to draw in a full breath, he was standing in a small field behind a wooded copse of trees, the four of them huddled awkwardly together around the cricket bat. 

“Whew. I never get used to that.” The woman laughed, blowing a few stray curls from her face. They let go of the portkey, stepping back to let the man with the mustache hide it in some tall grass. 

“Most inelegant.” Sherlock agreed.

 _“Oh, it is very unsettling,”_ the man said as he straightened up, _“but still the quickest way to travel.”_

“Urgh.” John swallowed the rising wave of nausea that threatened to crest over him.

Sherlock glanced at John, a pucker forming between his eyebrows as he placed a hand to his shoulder. “John are you alright?”

“Oh, here.” The witch pulled out a small packet. She shook out a sweet, passing it to John. “Anti-puking sherbet ball.” 

“Ta,” John said, popping it into his mouth. 

_“Well, my fine people, I wish you well on the rest of your journeys. Good-bye!”_ Their fellow companion nodded. As soon as they had all bid him farewell, he turned, apparating from the field. 

“Feeling better?” the woman asked brightly, looking at John.

“Yes, much,” John said, pleased to note that it was true. “Thank you so much.” 

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” She grinned, sticking out a palm. “I’m Claudette Chevalier.” 

“Pleased to meet you, I’m John Watson.” John said shaking her hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “John this is my second cousin, Claudette.” He waved to indicate the curly-headed woman. “Claudette, this is my . . . boyfriend, John.”

Sherlock had only hesitated briefly on using the word ‘boyfriend.’ John tried not to read anything into it. His cousin’s eyes grew round as saucers on hearing it though. 

“Oh? OH.” Claudette’s eyes flashed as she darted forward to pull John into an embrace. She dropped kisses to both his cheeks. 

“How lovely for you both.” She grinned pulling back. “Do you speak French, John?” She asked raising an eyebrow. 

“No, but . . .” John managed before Claudette turned to babble at Sherlock. 

_“Oh but he’s adorable! Such a handsome one! What a cute face, and such a nice round bum. Aren’t you the lucky one? If he wasn’t taken, I’d be asking him out.”_

“ . . . I have a translation spell on.” John finished lamely feeling a searing heat rise up over his face.

“Oh, good for you.” Claudette winked at John hardly looking ruffled at being caught out at all. 

“Claudette, will I see you at the big house?” Sherlock intervened.

“Not yet, I have to go to my parents’ first tonight. We’ll all come over tomorrow for Auntie Tessa’s big breakfast though. Are you staying there?”

“We are. So we’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Of course. Farewell my friends.” Claudette gave a jaunty wave before apparating away herself.

“So, your second cousin,” John said weakly gesturing toward the spot Claudette had just vacated.

“Indeed. Our grandmothers are sisters. Come on John. It isn’t too far from here, and it’s a nice day for a walk.” 

***

A lazy bee buzzed over their heads as they crested the small hill, and John got his first good look at the property. The gardens swept down to a beautiful two-story whitewashed home, the sort you’d see on a picture postcard surrounded by the appropriate flowers and rolling vineyards beyond.

“Gorgeous.” John breathed, taking it all in.

“It is, isn’t it? Come on, we’re nearly there.” Sherlock's eyes shone, his face suddenly looking years younger as he urged John onward.

It quickly became apparent to John as they neared that the house that it was much larger than he had first suspected. An extension obviously added on later than the original structure stretched away along the back of the place. More bees darted contentedly about the bougainvillea hanging from a trellis along a side wall. 

Sherlock led them past a stately front entrance to a smaller door around the corner. John stumbled a bit following him inside. After the bright sunshine, John had only the vaguest sense of cloaks hung round the small coatroom, but a pleasant herbal, yeasty smell greeted his nose as his eyes adjusted. A bubble of laughter sounded from a room farther in, and Sherlock grinned. 

“Wipe your feet first,” Sherlock cautioned, doing so on a bristly mat just inside the entrance. John smiled as he copied him, imagining Sherlock being reminded this many times as a child. They dropped their rucksacks, and followed the sounds of activity down a wood-floored hallway to what turned into a large kitchen, the many windows thrown wide to enjoy the garden beyond. Two women wrapped in aprons faced away, bent over a work top with their heads together.

_“Ah, Marie, I think that may just do the trick. Anise was a good idea.”_

_“Thank you, madam.”_

They turned at the sounds of their footfalls on the tiled floor.

 _“Sherlock! Darling boy.”_ The older woman’s face creased into a wide smile as she crossed the room to envelope Sherlock in a floury embrace. “You came. How good to see you, my dear.”

“Grand-mère I wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world,” Sherlock said bending down slightly to let his grandmother drop kisses to each of his cheeks. 

“Oh, and you must be Jean.” She turned clear blue eyes his way once she had released Sherlock.

John was charmed at how his name sounded in her accent. “I am, thank you so much for having me to stay, ma’am.” 

“Of course, Sherlock’s sweetheart is always welcome here.” The woman pulled John into a warm embrace. She smelled of good things, flowers and baking, and John couldn’t help relaxing into her hug. “And you must call me Grand-mère Holmes, yes? Sherlock’s told me so much about you, and by that I mean next to nothing.” She smiled wryly as she stepped back, shooting Sherlock an amused glance. “I had to bribe what little information I got out of Mycroft.” 

“He is easily swayed by cake,” Sherlock observed raising an eyebrow. 

John felt a blush rise up his neck. “Oh well, there’s not that much to tell about me.” 

“Nonsense. Mycroft tells me you’re planning to be a healer.” 

“Erm, yeah, that’s right. I’m hoping to study at St. Mungo’s after Hogwarts. Like my dad.” 

“Wonderful. Here, come and sit. You must try the biscuits.” She motioned to a nearby island with stools where John and Sherlock dutifully took seats. “It’s a new recipe.” 

“It smells wonderful,” John said inhaling deeply. 

“Jean, this is Marie, my right hand.” Grand-mère Holmes gestured to the pleasant-looking middle-aged woman busy piling biscuits onto a plate.

“How do you do?” John said as she turned their way.

“Very well. How nice to meet you.” She smiled, setting a heavy ceramic plate of biscuits before them with a small clink. 

John took one and bit down, amazed at the burst of lemon and spice that danced over his tongue. “Oh, that’s delicious.” 

“Mmm. It’s very good,” Sherlock agreed, trying his own. 

“Milk?” Grand-mère Holmes asked as she waved her wand, and a blue pitcher and two glass tumblers arrived before them. 

“Yes, thanks.” John poured them each a glass.

“I think I like the snowballs better, but these are nice,” Sherlock said reaching for a second biscuit.

“I know snowballs are your favorites. Don’t worry, we’ll have those too.” She winked as she turned back to the work top with Marie.

John glanced at Sherlock, his long form an elegant curve as he propped himself against the tabletop, one knee bent as his foot hooked over the rung of the stool. He dunked a biscuit into his milk before taking a bite. Sensing John’s eyes on him, he turned, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth as he munched. The buttery afternoon light rolled in through the windows painting the whole room a warm glow, and John sighed. He couldn’t imagine a prettier picture than Sherlock relaxed and smiling, crumbs across his lips. Sherlock reached down and caught John’s hand in his to give it a squeeze. He cocked his head to the side as he considered John for a moment. “I’m glad you could come with me.”

“It’s lovely to be here.” John stroked his thumb over the bumps of Sherlock’s knuckles. He marveled at the way the heart stones on their bracelets glowed as they nearly touched. Suddenly he couldn’t stand to be sitting next to a gorgeous Sherlock and not kissing him. 

“How ‘bout a kiss, then?” John whispered. Sherlock’s lips curved into a wider smile as he leaned closer. John put his elbow to the table, knocking his glass. They jumped, startled as it hit the floor, and shattered.

“Oh, GOD. I’m so sorry.” John recoiled, horrified.

“My, my, my.” Grand-mère tutted, surveying the milk and glass shards across the floor. “Well, no matter, my dears. It’s easily fixed.” She pulled out her wand, and with a wave, restored things back to rights.

 

***

“So this was your room?” John asked, glancing about the space awash with light from the tall windows. “When you were growing up?” 

The bedroom had a tidy, blank feeling like any guest room, a plain white coverlet over the double bed, but as John looked closer he could see what few possessions lay in the room were decidedly Sherlockian in nature. Small bones, round pebbles, and pinecones lay artfully arranged on top of some bookshelves stuffed with volumes on all manner of subjects. 

“I spent most of my summers here.” Sherlock nodded. “Since I was small.”

John could just picture a pint-sized Sherlock coming back to the house from a walk, his pockets stuffed with all sort of treasures picked up on his rambles.

“Well, this will do quite nicely, I think,” John declared, dropping his rucksack to the floor before sinking to stretch out over the bed. 

Sherlock fiddled with own bag, placing it on a chest of drawers against a far wall. He turned around, and stopped as he caught sight of John on the bed, an odd look passing over his face. 

“What?” John frowned.

“Nothing, it’s just . . .” Sherlock paused. “I’ve never shared this room with anyone before. It’s strange.”

“Oh, well,” John pushed up to his elbows. “I don’t have to stay in here with you if you wanted some privacy. I’m sure there’s other rooms. The house is quite massive, isn’t it?”

“No, no, of course not.” Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I like you being here. It’s just . . . different.” 

“Okay.” 

Sherlock crossed the room to crawl over the bed on all fours until he had straddled John’s hips, hands braced on either side of his head. Sherlock’s eyes were blazing, like living coals. “I like you on my bed very much, in fact.” 

“Well, all right then.” John chuckled.

Sherlock dipped his head and caught John’s mouth in a kiss that pulled him right under, sliding into a haze of soft lips and tangled tongues.

 

***

 _“Jean, look out!”_ Someone cried.

John swerved on his broom, turning just in time to catch the bludger with a satisfying crack of his bat, sending it careening in a new direction. 

A steady stream of visitors had invaded the house over the last few days as they worked up to Grand-mère’s big birthday dinner. Between Sherlock’s many distant cousins, and neighbors dropping by, a number of pick-up Quidditch games had come together quite easily. John was happy for the chance to practice as Teddy would be on them as soon as the team met next term. But no, it was far too early for thoughts of school with a clear blue summer sky stretched overhead. John inhaled deeply smelling green things warmed in the sun. 

_“That was a good one, my friend.”_ A blond boy, Henri, called out as he flew by.

“Merci!” John returned with a grin, glad that his translation spell was holding out so well.

Sherlock had been content to stick his nose in a book he’d gotten out of his grandmother’s library as John dashed about on his broom. Sherlock sprawled over a chaise lounge behind the house sunbathing as he read, dressed in some scandalously skimpy bathing costume and sleeveless top. It was all John could do to keep his mind on bludgers, and quaffles that afternoon with long, pale limbs and raven curls so artfully displayed below.

“Lucky hit,” Sherlock’s cousin, Alastaire, sneered as he flew by, brushing so close, John had to move aside to avoid a collision. “I hope you’ll do better back at school, _Gryffindor.”_ He drawled the house name as though it were a slur. 

“Oh bring it on, _Slytherin,”_ John called back, manfully pulling his attention from the tempting vision lounging on the patio, and back to Quidditch.

They didn’t have a snitch on them, so it was only half a game, but everyone quite enjoyed knocking the balls and flying about on such a fine day. Grand-mère Holmes’s property covered quite a stretch, and was well spelled to keep it concealed from any spying Muggle eyes. The field behind the house was perfect for a Quidditch game, with proper goal posts even set at either end, and a garden shed of spare brooms to borrow.

John couldn’t remember spending time with so many Magic folk before outside of school. People apparating in and out, floating objects, magical sweets, and all manner of fantastic goings-on felt oddly comfortable to him now. His time spent at Uptown Realty was starting to feel quite distant, like some half-remembered bad dream. 

Most of the other kids visiting were at Beauxbatons, and John had rubbed along with them all well enough. Then Sherlock’s cousin Alastaire and his family came to stay, and things had soured. His mother and older sister, Imogen, were too polite to say anything outright to John, but they’d been giving him the stink eye since they arrived. Alastaire however had set himself to subtly tormenting John as much as possible. 

When John used the salt shaker at their first dinner together, it suddenly dispensed cayenne pepper over his food. His water glass drained itself twice when he wasn’t looking, and his chair kept wanting to slide out from under him. The sneakoscope dial on Sherlock’s pocketwatch had turned red and spun madly all throughout the meal, but it didn’t tell them who the sneak was. Sherlock however had deduced the culprit right off, glaring daggers at Alastaire, as he hissed at him to knock it off. The boy had simply turned wide eyes their way, acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth when he said he had no idea what they meant. After that night however, when Alastaire went to sleep, and came running back out shrieking about the venomous spiders in his bed, the mealtime hijinks had not repeated.

John sighed as the chasers on his impromptu team, a pair of giggly girls, almost fell off their brooms trying to hit the quaffle. Only their keeper actually played on his school’s Quidditch team. The rest of the group were part-timers at best, so it was mainly John on the blue team, and Alastaire on the green team gunning for points. John held his hands up in triumph as his teammates cheered his third score in a row. He’d brought the tally up to 15 to 10 in their favour. John glanced at the garden to see if Sherlock had noticed his triumph, but his cousin Claudette had joined him and they sat, dark heads bent together intent on some spirited discussion. 

Alastaire however turned angrily to yell at him. “You cheated!” He sputtered. “You checked Francoise! That would have been a foul in an official game!”

“Bullshit, I only brushed him. We got that goal FAIR and square!” John said sticking out his chin. 

Alastaire looked fit to spit nails, but his cousins just snorted at him, telling him to shut his trap. When Marie appeared shortly thereafter shooing platters of food and lemonade to land at tables on the patio, the game naturally broke up in favour of afternoon tea. Alastaire bumped roughly against John as they landed on the grass. 

“So sorry,” he tossed over his shoulder, not very convincingly as they dropped their brooms off by the side of the field.

“Yeh, excuse you. LOSER.” John snorted. “Hope we see more of that back at school.” 

Alastaire ignored him to stomp off toward the food, and John followed, realizing how hungry he was as his stomach rumbled.

“Jean,” the housekeeper greeted him, pointing to a tray of glasses. “Do you strip often in the hot sunshine?”

“I beg your pardon?” He frowned.

Marie’s smile faltered. “Marmalade when the east wind blows?”

“I’m not sure I understand.” John said scratching the back of his head. 

“We hang the darkest reaches with crinoline.” Marie said earnestly. 

“Okaaaay. I think I’m missing something here.” John looked around. “Is this a game?”

The girl closest to John snickered. 

Marie nodded and turned on her heel, retreating indoors. 

Puzzled but thirsty, John reached for a glass of lemonade. He’d swallowed half of it down when Sherlock strolled up, now decently covered in a long robe with Claudette at his side. 

“Hey love, did you see that? The blue team murdered ‘em!” he told Sherlock proudly. 

Sherlock’s nose crinkled up. “Chicken tacos of my soul,” he said.

“Oh, not you too.” John groaned.

“Dripping all the daisies?” Claudette asked, looking concerned.

“Oh, come on. What gives?” John’s voice grew louder. “Has everyone here gone mental, and I missed the memo?”

Absolute silence reigned for just a moment before both Quidditch teams burst out laughing. Alastaire looked ready to roll on the ground. John felt heat rising over his cheeks.

Even Sherlock looked as if he were struggling to keep a straight face as he took John’s arm and made to pull him indoors. “Ribbons of glue,” he whispered. 

“Hang on.” John insisted, digging in his heels. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me what’s going on!”

Grand-mère Holmes stepped outside to catch the tail end of John’s shout, and the subsequent peals of mirth of those gathered. 

“Golden peaches bouncing?” she said earnestly looking around the crowd. 

Several people answered her, mumbling phrases that made less and less sense. Grand-mère Holmes located her wand. Only when she babbled something forcefully at Sherlock did he agreed to let go of John’s arm and step away. After a few passes with her wand and more odd phrases, John felt a pop inside his ears like a pressure change. Suddenly he could understand the people around him. At least those speaking English. 

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock returned anxiously to John’s side.

“Yeh, I’m fine. What was all that?”

“I believe someone tampered with your translation spell,” Sherlock said darkly.

Grand-mère Holmes frowned at the assembled crowd. “When I find out who did this, I will be quite monstrous. Disrespect for a guest at my home?” She glared around, finishing her sharp tirade in French. Everyone hung their heads for laughing at John when she had finished. 

“Poor dear, you’ll be alright now.” she said, smiling at John. 

“Thanks so much,” John said weakly. 

“Just curious,” John whispered to Sherlock and Claudette, hanging back as everyone else swarmed over the buffet. “What did you hear ME saying?”

“Well, after the thing about an itchy bum, and wanting cat pee for lunch, you said something about you and an elephant . ..” Claudette trailed off suggestively. 

“Oh,” John said, shoulders dropping. Sherlock merely frowned.

After piling some plates with food, Claudette and Sherlock herded John away from the group back to the chairs in the herb garden. John and Sherlock settled side by side on the chaise lounge he’d been spread over earlier as Claudette slid into the chair beside it. 

“It was Alastaire. I know it,” Sherlock growled.

“I beat him in Quidditch, and he was getting his own back.” John shrugged, still feeling a bit embarrassed. “He’s an arse.” 

“He’s a conniving, ignorant pox on the face of humanity who couldn’t find his arse in a paper bag.” Sherlock spat, “He deserves to be taught a lesson.”

“Peace, Sherlock, peace.” Claudette smiled, holding up a placating hand. “If we concerned ourselves with bringing Alastaire into the human race, we’d be at it all day. Best to ignore him. Look, John is fine.” 

“Yeah, no worries.” John quirked a smile reaching for a ham sandwich. “It was a stupid trick, but no harm done.”

“He’s a bleeding idiot, I’ve half a mind . . .” Sherlock growled when Claudette let out a peal of laughter. 

“Look at you, my little stone, gone all mushy.” She shot him a flirtatious look from under her lashes. 

Sherlock stopped mid-rant to blush. 

“I never thought I’d see this one go sweet on someone.” Claudette said, selecting a cheese tart from her plate. “The two of you look good together.” She smiled at John.

“Ta, Claudette. I’m pretty chuffed to have Sherlock in my life.” John dropped a hand to cover Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock blushed even harder. He mumbled something unintelligible before grabbing a roll to stuff into his mouth.

Claudette laughed again, and bit into her pastry.

***

There were over twenty at dinner that night. Thankfully, Grand-mère Holmes had a dining table that conveniently grew or shrank depending on how many were seated round it. It left enough neutral territory that Alaistare and his family could be at one end of the table, and John and Sherlock at the other, and they hardly had to bother with each other. John chuckled at the condiment jars walking about the table on small legs only pausing if someone needed to use them. 

“Who’s the bloke with your grandmother?” John nodded up the table toward the handsome silver-haired man. He’d appeared that afternoon, and now seemed a permanent fixture by Grand-mère’s side. The man in question tipped his head back, laughing loudly at some joke being told.

“Oh, that’s her boyfriend, Philippe.” Sherlock shrugged. “He lives down the lane.”

“Boyfriend?” John smiled. “You’re taking the piss.”

“What you think she’s too old for that?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow over calm, pale eyes.

“Oh, no, wait I didn’t mean . . .”

The woman next to Sherlock asked him something in French, and Sherlock turned to answer. John focused his attention on cutting his excellent roast chicken. 

“John.” Sherlock swiveled back after a few minutes later, a small crease in his brow. “Do you want me to help you put your translation spell back in order? I know you can’t understand everyone.”

“No. Best leave it. Less chance for problems.” John sighed, glancing up the table where Alastaire was busy gabbing away gesturing to a small audience. 

“I could talk to Grand-mère about Alastaire. She’d put a stop to anything else happening.” 

“No, really. I don’t want to trouble her. It’s her birthday celebration,” John said. “Just let it go.”

“Fine, but if he does anything else, it won’t just be spiders in his bed.” Sherlock growled.

After a dessert of cake with berries and cream, John felt near to bursting. The group broke up, moving to their own pursuits. Philippe moved around the long table to meet them, and Sherlock introduced him to John. The man spoke in heavily accented but perfectly sound English. 

“Jean, it is nice to meet you.” He clapped John on the shoulder with a broad grin. “If you don’t mind perhaps I could steal Sherlock away? We have a chess game going, and I would enjoy a chance to play in person.” 

One glance at the spark in Sherlock’s eye, and John immediately bowed aside. “Yeh, no worries, of course.” He smiled. 

“John, you don’t mind?” Sherlock bit the side of his lip. 

“Course not. I’m thinking of turning in early anyway. I’ll just go find a book to read.”

“Alright, if you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure. Go.” 

With a quick peck to John’s cheek, Sherlock was off, he and Philippe nattering on in lilting French as they left the room. How lovely Sherlock’s deep voice already sounded. Hearing it purr along through the open vowels of a foreign tongue sent shivers down John’s spine. At least there was one perk of not having his translation spell operating he thought. 

John made his way down the corridor to the room he knew held the library. It was a cheerful place filled with rows of books, big squashy armchairs, and a wide fireplace set to one side. It must be cozy in the winter he thought. Right now though, curtained glass doors hung slightly open to let in the balmy night air. John tilted his head to read the spines of the books set along the shelves. He trailed along, pulling down likely candidates to flip through. When he’d found one that looked like a good action story, he turned to leave, and noticed the pleasing whir of the crickets outside. John was suddenly seized with the notion of how nice it would be to slip out for just a moment to breathe in the quiet dark of the night. John pushed the doors wider and stepped onto what looked like a small porch. He breathed in deeply letting the heady scent of roses wash over him. When he realized he smelled burning tobacco along with the flowers, he turned, startled, toward the source. 

Grand-mère Holmes sat in the shadows, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingertips. “Jean, I see you had the same good idea. So nice to steal away for a quiet moment.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you, ma’am.”

“No, no, please come join me. Sometimes a private chat is just the thing.” She waved to the empty chair beside her. 

John sat down feeling suddenly tongue-tied as he watched her take a pull from her cigarette, the end growing bright orange in the dark. She blew a stream of smoke to the side.

“I know, this is such a terrible habit,” Grand-mère Holmes said wryly, gesturing with the cigarette, “but at my age, we must hold onto our small vices, no?”

John hummed in reply as she reached for a small bowl, stubbing her smoke out inside it.

“But I am glad for a chance to speak to you, Jean. It is such fun my birthday week, but sometimes it gets a bit crazy. I hope you are enjoying your stay here.”

“Yes, I am, very much so.” John smiled.

“Jean, I wanted to apologize for what happened to you earlier today.”

“It was a prank,” John said. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“Still it is not what I wish for guests at my house.” She tilted her head in the dark, considering. “I was watching earlier. You are very good at Quidditch. I can see why our Sherlock likes you. Brains and brawn.”

“Erm, “John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I’ve embarrassed you now. I’m sorry. It is a failing of the old. We can speak our minds with little thought.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I enjoy Quidditch. I play beater on the Gryffindor team at school.”

“How lovely. Still, if anyone is bothering you here, you will let me know?”

“Yes, thank you, I will.” 

“Where is our Sherlock then? You two have been peas in a pod since you arrived.” 

John chuckled. “He’s playing chess with Philippe.” 

“Good. Those two are good for each other.” Grand-mère Holmes turned to look out into the night for a moment. They sat quietly as the insects continued their chorus, a living, pulsing hum around them. John tipped his head back and found the stars so bright here, a spill of diamonds over the velvet of the night sky. 

“Jean, I will tell you,” Her voice was so quiet as she faced the black that was the gardens. “Life does not always work out as we think it will. Do you know Philippe was the first boy I ever kissed?” 

“Really?” John smiled into the dark.

“Yes, at a local harvest ball, but I went to Beauxbatons, and he to another school, and we only saw each other on holidays. We said we would wait for each other, but in my final year, I had the honor of competing at the Triwizarding tournament at Hogwarts.”

“How did you do?” John asked. 

“Well, I didn’t win.” She chuckled. “I didn’t come in last either. What I DID do though was meet William Holmes. Oh, Will was such a dashing young man. I found myself quite swept away. I fear I thought little about Philippe when Will asked me to marry him.”

“Ah.” John nodded waiting. 

“Jean, your lost your father in the Battle of Hogwarts, did you not?”

“I did. I miss not knowing him.” John admitted. 

“I’m so sorry for you.” She reached out to pat his leg. 

“Thank you.” 

“That was a horrible, horrible time. You young folk don’t know how it was . . . a war that tore us apart, set families against each other. . .” She shuddered. “It should never have been. When we lost both our sons in the war, it broke my husband. He was never quite the same. When he died a few years later, I left England never to return. I came back to France to find some peace, but do you know what I found instead?”

“What?” John asked.

“Philippe. It seems that he had lost his wife recently, and we were both at loose ends. One thing led to another, and we found we still had that spark between us. After all these years.” 

“That’s lovely.” 

“He asks me to marry him every year, you know. On my birthday.” John felt certain the old lady winked at him in the dark.

“He does?”

“Yes, and every year, I tell him no. I tell him, Philippe, I enjoy you too much to be married to you.” She let out a throaty laugh, and John couldn’t help joining in. 

“Well, now I’ve talked your ear off with my ramblings. I’ve probably bored you stiff.” 

“No, not at all,” John said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You are too kind, but come let us go back inside and see what the rest of today has for us.” She stood and led the way back to the library. It was quite bright after being in the dark outside, and John blinked.

“I think I’ll just turn in,” John said, holding up his book by way of explanation. 

“Ah, I think I will do the same.” Grand-mère said with a kind smile. “Everyone will come for the big party tomorrow. It will be a busy day.”

“I look forward to it. Good night then.”

“Yes, good night, my dear boy.”

 

***

“What do you think of it?” Sherlock grinned.

“God, Sherlock. It’s amazing!” John breathed, turning in a circle for a better view.

They had gone for a walk, getting out from underfoot of all the party preparations. A Wizard catering company with “Meilleurs Voeux” printed across the back of their robes had arrived just after breakfast. They had already seized control of the house and lawn to ready things for the big gala.

Sherlock took John on a tour through his grandmother’s property, steering them past the vineyards to a strip of woods beyond. They entered the dark of the tree line to follow a small trail worn into the dirt. Walking easily side by side, they chatted of nothing in particular until John heard the faint tinkle of bells from somewhere up ahead.

“Wait, do you hear that?” John cocked his head to listen. “Where's that music coming from?”

“I don’t want to spoil your first impression.” Sherlock smiled. “Wait and see.” 

The sounds grew louder, until they burst out of the underbrush into a clearing ringed by a stand of trees in nearly every shade of the rainbow. Their multi-coloured leaves chimed like a massive bell chorus as a slight breeze ruffled through them, each tinkling and ringing in turn.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” John breathed. “What is it?”

“Something my father and uncle worked on when they visited their grandparents for the summer.”

“Wow. This is impressive magic.” John whistled. 

“It’s always been one of my favourite spots.” Sherlock said. “I used to bring a book and a picnic and spend whole days here.” 

“I can understand why.” 

“Come on, there’s a seat.” Sherlock led him to a fallen log that had been carved flat and polished on one side to form a bench. 

They sat side by side just enjoying the sights and sounds. John took Sherlock’s hand in his, threading their fingers together.

“It’s hard to believe,” Sherlock said quietly.

“What?” 

“After looking at this.” Sherlock tipped his chin to indicate the beautiful ring of trees around them. “It’s hard to believe that one day my father and uncle became death eaters. That one day they just woke up and decided to do something unspeakably evil. I heard they tortured people for Voldemort. Why would they do that, John?” Sherlock turned pale eyes John’s way. “I’ve never understood it.”

A cloud passed over the sun, and John shivered. 

“I dunno, Sherlock. I guess it’s just not that simple. People are complicated, and things were mad back then, yeh? Maybe they didn’t think they had a choice.” 

“People always have a choice.” Sherlock said darkly. 

John had nothing else to say, so he leaned in, and laid a sweet kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s lips. “Hey, I love you, y’know,” he said. 

“I love you, too.” Sherlock turned, winding his arms around John to grip him fiercely as their next kiss deepened into something molten. 

When they arrived back at the house with grass stains on their clothes, and leaf bits in their hair, Marie laughed and shooed them off, telling them to go get washed and changed for the party. 

By late afternoon, the caterers had a large purple tent erected on the lawn beside the house, and the guests began arriving in earnest. Sherlock lent John one of his older dress robes, he had so many, that Marie had taken up earlier to fit, and they left the safety of Sherlock’s room to enter the fray. A buffet of nibbles appeared on a row of tables outside as a bright anti-gravity bounce house hunkered nearby to entertain any small children in tow. 

Sherlock left to find them cups of punch, and John helped himself to a cracker with something fishy on it, when he turned about and found Mycroft looking even more formal than usual behind him. 

“John.” He nodded politely.

“Hiya, Mycroft. I didn’t know you were here.” 

“Just arrived in fact.” 

“Mikey.” Grand-mère descended to tug Mycroft lower so she could drop a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Oh, mon beau garçon, je suis très heureuse de te voir!” (Oh, my lovely boy, I am very happy to see you.)

“Mais bien sûr, ma chère grand-mère. Rien n'aurait pu m'arrêter. Joyeux anniversaire.” Mycroft smiled indulgently down at her. (But of course, my dear grandmother. Nothing could keep me away. Happy Birthday)

“Merci, ma petite carotte.” The side of her mouth lifted as she reached up to muss his perfectly groomed ginger hair. (Thank you, my little carrot.)

“Just so.” Mycroft winced as he reached into his pocket, and retrieved a wrapped gift to hand her. 

“Oh, how lovely. Thank you, dear.” She reached up to pat his face with her free hand. “S'il vous plaît,” she called to one of the hired staff. "Mettez cela sur la table, je vous prie.” (Please, put this on the table, if you would.)

“Oui, madame,” the man said, accepting the gift to ferry it to a nearby table already groaning with gaily-wrapped packages and envelopes.

“Hullo, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sliding back into view with two cups of red punch in his hands. He handed one to John.

“Ta,” John said. He accepted it to take a small sip, and winced. He hadn’t realized it would be quite so alcoholic.

“Taking a day off from micro-managing the Wizarding world?” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in Mycroft’s general direction as he took a swallow from his own cup.

“Not all of us have the summer to lounge about, but Grand-mère’s birthday is always one of my highest priorities.” Mycroft nodded.

“Well, that and all the cake that will be available.” Sherlock snorted.

“Boys!” Grand-mère scowled at them. “It’s my birthday. I command that you behave for it. “

“Yes, Grand-mère,” Sherlock and Mycroft said contritely in near unison, both looking about five years old. 

“Très bien.” She smiled at them before being drawn into another conversation, and moving off into the crowd. (very good.)

***

It was some time later that Sherlock and John found seats at an empty table at the side of the tent. John’s head was spinning with the sheer number of greetings and handshakes he’d endured already. 

John glanced around at the elegant ice sculptures that didn’t melt in the warm summer evening, and the ropes of fairy lights glowing gently above the heads of the people laughing and talking in a buzz around them. He could see Mycroft a few tables away chatting seriously with a rather fit dark-haired man. The tent didn’t look that big from outside, but once under it, the space was simply enormous.

“Your Grand-mère knows a lot of people.” John observed.

“Ugh.” Sherlock blew out a breath of air. “I’ll be happy when all these people go home.” He said emphasizing “people” as though it meant some sort of disgusting bottom-dweller.

Claudette appeared, laughing, dragging a young man with brown hair and eyes behind her to take seats beside them. “Sherlock, Jean, I wanted you to meet Etienne.” Her next words slid into French, as she gabbed away, her hands moving through the air in punctuation. John felt his eyes glaze over as his three companions chatted in incomprehensible vowels. He was only slightly mollified when lobster ravioli appeared on the plate before him. 

“Oh, John, I’m sorry. I forgot you can’t understand us.” Claudette turned concerned eyes his way. “It’s just that Etienne doesn’t speak English . . .” 

“No, no, it’s fine.” John waved her off. He smiled and took a sip from his glass of wine.

Sherlock flashed him an apologetic look, and reached under the table to squeeze his thigh before turning back to the conversation.

Sherlock’s grandmother sat at a central table looking magnificent in a long white robe and ropes of pearls. John could see Philippe smiling at her side, and wondered if he were getting ready to ask her to marry him, or if she had turned him down earlier in the day. John smiled to himself, and reached for his wine again.

When dinner had finished, half of the chairs and tables were whisked away to make room for dancing. A hardwood floor appeared to cover the new space while a band set up in the corner. In short order, the musicians launched into a lovely, slow beat that drew all the older guests out to waltz. 

Sherlock fetched another round of drinks and led John to some chairs to watch. John wasn’t sure what was in his glass, but Sherlock had thrust it into his hand unceremoniously so he tried it. It tasted tropical.

“Do you wanna . . .” John motioned to the dance floor, sloshing a bit of his drink over his hand. 

“Let’s wait for the faster songs they’ll do in a few minutes once the old people get tired.” Sherlock slumped in his chair. John watched him tipping his glass to his lips to take a swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing along his throat. Why was that so damned sexy? John licked his lips.

“Jean,” Claudette leaned breathlessly into John’s line of view. “Come dance with me.” 

“Erm, alright.” John glanced back at Sherlock, but the man just waved him on. “Back in a mo'!” He called over his shoulder as Claudette towed him away. She was looking quite festive with her hair pinned up, and a lovely peachy robe that brought out the colour in her cheeks. She tugged John out onto the floor, only allowing him to lead once they were in place. 

“Ah, Jean, you’re quite good,” Claudette said as John guided her about the dance floor.

“Ta,” John smiled. “I had lessons before the last Yule ball at school. 

“Did you take Sherlock?” She had such a lilting way of saying his name, John smiled wider. 

“No sadly, we weren’t going out back then. We only got together on Easter break.” 

“Oh, so this is brand new, you two!” She grinned.

“Yeh, I guess so.” John maneuvered her around a couple swinging their way. 

“Listen, Jean, I’m sorry about all the French back there earlier.” Claudette nodded toward the tables. She leaned in to whisper by his ear. “I’m trying to get a leg over with Etienne. British boy are so stuffy. I think I’ve actually got a chance with this one.”

John threw back his head and laughed. “He’d be a fool to pass you up, Claudette.”

“But boys are fools so often, aren’t they? Quick, give us a kiss to make him jealous, then.” 

“Big or little?” John asked from the side of his mouth.

“The biggest.” Claudette whispered.

John waited until the song drew to a close. “Ma cherie” John said, sweeping Claudette into a dramatic dip over his arm. “It’s been my pleasure.” He leaned in and planted a big smack over her lips. It was a chaste thing, for show only, but Claudette was bright eyed when he pulled her upright to release her. 

“Thank you!” She mouthed making her way back to the sidelines where Etienne stood frowning, holding two glasses of wine.

Sherlock looked like a cat left out in the rain when John returned, all sullen, and flattened.

“Hey there, kitty.” John stopped directly in front of Sherlock’s chair. 

Sherlock made an angry sort of noise in reply. John reached out to run a hand through his mad curls. “Come on, you. Let’s get out of here.” John held his hand out, and Sherlock sulked a microsecond longer before allowing John to pull him to his feet. 

“I bet you know some excellent places to snog around here.” John stood on tiptoe to whisper by his ear. “Come on, show me. I want to do wicked things to you, and I’d prefer not to have so many witnesses.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, but a smile tugged at his perfect lips as he pulled John through the crowd. “I know just the place.”

Sherlock led John from the bustle of the tent into the dark of the grounds beyond. Twice they passed shadowy forms giggling in the bushes, clearly other couples with their same good idea. Though John has seen much of the gardens during the day, it had shifted into something strange and fey in the cloak of night. John held onto Sherlock’s hand as he pulled him through the lush fragrance of half-formed plants, past a burbling fountain pouring its silvery stream out in the moonlight, leaving the music of the water behind as they moved ever onward along the unseen path. Finally Sherlock tugged John past some tall bushes to reach their destination, a secluded little nook. He guided John to a small curved bench, clambering into his lap as he sat, his long legs folded against the outside of John’s. 

“So,” Sherlock purred. “I believe I was promised some wicked things?”

“Mmmm.” John said, pulling Sherlock’s head closer to his own. John kissed him languorously, sucking Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth. “You taste like pineapple.” He crooned. 

“So do you,” Sherlock said, licking back.

John kissed his mouth quite thoroughly before moving along Sherlock’s jaw to smear kisses down that impossibly long pale throat. No matter how many times John had touched Sherlock in a day, it seemed he still craved more, more skin, more drugging kisses, more pressing as close as possible, more . . . John bit lightly at the juncture of shoulder and neck, and felt Sherlock jolt against him.

“Nngh, _John._ ” Sherlock gasped.

John worked his way back up to Sherlock’s mouth losing himself in a sweet slide of lips and tongue. Hands were just getting into fun places when a burst of light exploded over their heads. 

“Oh, the fireworks!” Sherlock said pushing off John to stumble back. 

“Wait, wha . . .?” John blinked, confused at the sudden loss of Sherlock in his lap.

“The fireworks show Grand-mère holds every year. It’s quite something. She hires the best company in France. Come on, we can’t miss it.” 

“Alright, alright.” John felt a bit wrong-footed as he tugged his clothes back to rights and followed the lanky genius sprinting ahead of him. 

They emerged on the lawn to find the guests moved to rows of folding chairs set up to view the grand display. Sherlock led John to a pair of open chairs, and they slid into their seats just as a burning phoenix made of orange and yellow light crackled to life overhead. A symphony of explosions and lights erupted around them, pinwheels, rockets, and fantastic shapes one after the other in dizzying succession.

"Sherlock, how do all the Muggles not see this? This is amazing!" John nudged Sherlock beside him in some awe.

"Hmm? Oh, the Muggles. The company spells their fireworks to look like a thunderstorm for anyone not on the property." Sherlock waved a careless hand.

"The weathermen will be scratching their heads tomorrow." John said, gasping as a very realistic silver dragon burst across the sky leaving a trail of rainbow sparkles in its wake. The guests cried out and ducked as it soared just over their heads before winking out.

“Brilliant!” John breathed. He sneaked a glance at Sherlock as the shower of sparks drifted harmlessly down over them. With his upturned face lit in changing colours, and his eyes wide open and shining, he looked like something ethereal, otherworldly. An odd feeling shivered over John as if Sherlock were far, far away and out of reach instead of sat by his side. 

John must have made a sound because Sherlock turned to look his way. He smiled as he reached out to take John’s hand, and the odd sensation passed with the familiar press of their palms together. 

After the fireworks show ended in a glorious burst of swirling fiery lines spelling “Happy Birthday, Tessa,” everyone cheered, and burst into wild applause. People moved back to the tent drawn by the band restarting with the faster tunes Sherlock had predicted. John saw Claudette, towing Etienne toward the bushes, and grinned. It looked as though she might get her wish that night. 

“So, do you want to . . .” John jerked a thumb toward the music, but Sherlock shook his head.

“Can I take a rain check on the dancing? I think I’ve had my fill of parties right now.” 

“Sure. Of course.” 

“I'd rather head back inside.” 

“Yeh, okay.”

Sherlock made a detour by the bar, slipping out his wand to coax a bottle of wine and two glasses floating their way when the bartender turned his back. Sherlock caught the wine while John plucked the glasses from the air. 

“Lead on, sir.” John chuckled, gesturing ahead.

They slipped into the house and moved past the front rooms filled with the chatter of people, and the tinkling of glasses as the servants moved among them. When they saw the hallway leading to the upstairs bedrooms filled with a knot of laughing people, Sherlock rolled his eyes, and led John down another corridor toward the back of the house. 

They passed a line of portraits hung along the wall of people with pale eyes and pointed chins. Several of them called out sharply to Sherlock in French as he passed, but he ignored them to duck into a room holding the door open for John to follow. With a wave of his wand, Sherlock set the lamps blazing to life revealing a parlour of sorts lined round with shelves and cabinets. 

“Ugh, family.” Sherlock shut the door behind them with a sigh. 

“Oh, I dunno. Mine’s pretty small.” John shrugged. I’ve got grandparents and an aunt and two cousins up in the lake country, but we hardly ever see them.

“Count yourself lucky.” Sherlock grimaced. With another flick of his wand, he sent the cork shooting out of the wine with a loud pop. John held out the glasses as Sherlock poured them each a drink. 

“Cheers.” 

“Cheers, love.” John smiled as they tipped glasses together.

Sherlock flopped onto a settee, but John strolled about the room while he sipped. The bubbles of the wine tickled his nose. “So what is all this stuff.” He peered at what looked like a giant snail shell inside one of the cabinets. 

“Oh, the curio room. Artifacts, and magical heirlooms – that sort of thing.” Sherlock waved a hand casually. 

“Oh, right.” John clamped his lips together as he gestured to an ancient-looking tapestry on the wall. “So, the usual then.” He sauntered closer to a glass cabinet filled with all sorts of odds and ends.

“John, I’m sorry you were raised by Muggles.” 

“Oi?” John’s eyebrows shot up. 

“No, no, not what I meant.” Sherlock scrunched his nose. He rose from his seat a bit unsteadily, and setting his glass down on a side table, crossed the room to join John. He opened the door to the cabinet and reached in to retrieve what looked like a clear glass ball from its place on a small cushion. “Crystal ball.” Sherlock said simply, holding it up to the light. “I had an ancestor who used to tell fortunes for Muggles back in the 1800’s.” 

“Does it work?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Fortune-telling is a very imprecise art. Give me a good set of arithmancy instead any day.” 

John snorted a small laugh. “May I hold it?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock rolled the ball into John’s open palm. 

He squinted at it. “What’re you meant to do exactly?” 

“Open your mind to the possibilities? Relax and free associate? As I’ve said, this was never my specialty.”

John peered at the ball. It caught the light in a pretty way, but besides finding his own fingers, magnified from the other side, there wasn’t much to see. They both gasped when a small cloud suddenly formed at the orb’s centre. It was blurry, but John thought he saw a flicker of azure waves and bright white sand. A blond man walked alone on the beach, stripped to the waist. He looked fit, sturdy, and well-tanned as he gazed at the water, putting a hand over his eyes to shield the glare. The vision passed as quickly as it had arrived. 

“Well, whadda ya know?” John grinned. “It must be our trip to Greece.” 

Sherlock hummed something noncommittal in reply, and took John’s drink from him, tipping it back to drain it. “John, it’s so hard to pin down . . .” 

They both turned as the door opened behind them. 

“Yes, a mastodon tusk. Really . .. it’s right . . .” Alastaire appeared in the room trailing two younger boys behind him. “Oh, hello, Sherlock, John.” Alastaire nodded somewhat reluctantly their way. 

“What are you doing here Alastaire?” Sherlock sniffed.

“I have as much right to be here as you and your boyfriend do, Sheeerlock.” Alastaire folded his arms over his chest. The two boys stepped past him to ogle the displays around the room. 

“Fine. We were just leaving.” Sherlock went to retrieve the bottle of wine from the coffee table when Mycroft appeared in the doorway. 

“Ah, there you are brother, mine.” 

“What is this, the Central Portkey Station?” Sherlock huffed.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Mycroft tipped his head “but there’s a small matter I need to discuss with you about finances. If you’ll join me in the study for a moment?”

“Must we do this now?” 

“Well, I don’t plan to spend the night.” Mycroft raised one elegant eyebrow. “If you want funds available during your stay in Heidelberg, we need to see about authorizing a bank transfer soon.” 

“Alright, fine.” Sherlock glanced John. “Sorry.” His tilted his head and lifted eyebrows. _You’ll be okay?_

“No, it’s fine. Go.” John waved him on. 

“Back in a moment.” Sherlock said, hesitating. He looked like he might have kissed John good-bye if Alastaire hadn't been giving them the side-eye. He settled instead on shooting John a moony look before following Mycroft out the door. 

“Wicked!” The taller of the boys exclaimed from across the room. Alastaire and John moved to look over their shoulders, peering at their find. “See that!” The boy pointed to a row of hideous shrunken heads lining a cupboard shelf. 

“What IS that?” the shorter, rounder boy asked.

“Ah, yes, the house elves.” Alastaire nodded. “Their bodies were cremated, but their heads were always saved as a memento.”

“Ooh, that’s disgusting,” the round boy cooed. 

“You want to see something really disgusting?” Alastaire’s eyes danced with an unholy light. The younger boys agreed immediately. 

“What beyond your face?” John grinned. 

“Oh shut it," Alastaire said, moving to a corner cabinet. He tried to open the door but it was locked. He found his wand and waved it. “ _Alohomora!_ ” he commanded. Nothing happened. He frowned, trying a few more complicated spells before it finally popped open. The younger boys clustered around to peer inside, while John crossed the room to retrieve the wine, refilling his glass with the last of it. 

“Oooooh, nasty!” Tall one cried. 

“It’s horrid, Alastaire,” Fatty said, agitated. “Oh, don’t pick it up!” 

“Of course not,” Alastaire said waving his wand to levitate the item from the cabinet. It lifted from the back of the shelf to float before them, an ugly shriveled, blackened hand. 

“Well, that really is disgusting." John moved closer to view the awful thing despite his first instinct to pull away. "Why keep something like that around?” He asked wrinkling his forehead. 

“It’s a hand of glory.” Alastaire said with something like pride. If you use it as a candle-holder, it will provide light for anyone who holds it but no one else.” 

“I think infra-red googles would be a lot neater.” John said taking a swallow from his glass. 

“Infra whottsit?” the round boy asked.

“Nothing,” John muttered suddenly aware how little these boys would know of the Muggle world. 

Alastaire shot him a sneer, and sent the hand back to the cabinet with a wand flick. 

“What’s that thing?” Tall one asked pointing at a silver cup higher up. They all looked closer as he sniggered. “It’s got TITS on it!” 

It was a pretty goblet with an ornate stem and base covered in a bas-relief of naked, writhing figures of both sexes. 

“Oh that.” Alastaire rolled his eyes. "It’s spelled. It’s said to bring everlasting love to whoever drinks from it.”

“Oh.” The younger boys thought for a moment. “So what about the mastodon tusk? You said you had one.” Tall one stuck out his jaw. “Or were you just having us on?”

“Never!” Alastaire said. “It’s over here.” He lead the boys back across the room to a long chest of drawers, and knelt to work the bottom one open. 

John couldn’t stop staring at the silver goblet. It drew him closer, almost shimmering from its place on the shelf. He reached to pick it up, admiring the light glinting over its surface. “So,” John called over to Alastaire. “Everlasting love, eh?” 

“Yeh, that’s what people are told . . .” Alastaire said, fighting with the stuck drawer.

John felt some wild impulse take over him. He sloshed what was left from his wine glass into the goblet, and raised it to his lips. 

“But it’s really just poisoned.” Alastaire finished as John swallowed. 

John breathed in one last sip of air before he felt his windpipe close. Both cups fell to the floor as his fingers went slack. Reaching up to claw ineffectually at his throat, John crumpled downward. 

It was a blur, a choked horror of pain and burning consuming him from the inside out. Sparks clouded his vision going to black, before he was grabbed, and something forced down his aching throat. Utter gratitude washed over John as he gasped in his first sweet breath of air. Just this simple act of filling his lungs was a miracle of the highest order, and he struggled to quickly repeat it.

“Easy, son, just relax.” John looked up to see the kindly face of the man Mycroft had been with at dinner looming over him. “You’ve got a bezoar in your mouth. Just breathe normally and you’ll be fine.” 

“Oh hell, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Alastaire looked close to tears hovering nearby.

“YOU BASTARD.” Someone entered the room with a battle cry as Alastaire jerked off his feet to fly through the air. The knick-knacks rattled in the cabinets as he hit the wall and slid to the floor. Sherlock flicked his wand again, and a bright red cut appeared over Alastaire’s cheek.

“No, stop, Sherlock wait . . .” Alastaire pleaded, an arm thrown up to ward off whatever was coming next.

Sherlock advanced over him looking simply murderous. 

“Sher . . .” John tried to croak, but his throat was too raw to properly speak.

“Hey . . . “ The man beside John rose to his feet when Grand-mère Holmes apparated into the room in a whirl of white robe, her eyes blazing fire. 

“ENOUGH. There will be no wands raised between family in this home!” She cried, “Sherlock, wand away, NOW.” Her voice brooked no debate.

Sherlock seemed to wake from a trance as he blinked, slowly lowering his wand arm. Grand-mère surveyed the scene quickly. With a grim look, she pulled out her own wand, and sent the cursed goblet to fling itself back into the cupboard. Once the door had closed and locked itself with a click, she turned hard eyes to Alastaire still on the floor.

“It was an accident,” Alastaire pleaded, scrambling up to sitting. “You have to believe me Grand-mère, I never meant . . .” 

“Save it, Alastaire,” the woman snapped. “Right now I want you in your room. I’ll be having words with your mother. I think it best if you and your family left in the morning. You KNEW not to open that locked door.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Alastaire struggled to his feet, holding a hand to his bleeding cheek as he left the room. 

“You, two. OUT.” She jerked her head to the door, and the younger boys scampered out on Alastaire’s heels.

“John, are you alright, dear?” She knelt by John’s side. With a wave of her wand, she conjured a glass of water that she pressed into his hand. 

“Yes, I think so.” John rasped out, gratefully taking a sip from the glass. “I’m sorry I don’t know what I was thinking to drink from a strange goblet like that.” 

“It was the glamour, dear. You’re not to blame. We’re just lucky we had someone with a bezoar nearby to save the day.” She turned to smile fondly at the handsome man at John’s other side. “We are deeply in your debt, sir.”

“Oh, no worries,” he said. “I always keep a few of them about.” 

“We are indeed in your debt though.” Mycroft said from his place in the doorway. “John, though this is perhaps not the best of circumstances in which to meet, I’d like to introduce Professor Gregory Lestrade. He’ll be teaching your potions classes at Hogwarts next year.”

“How do you?” John said finally remembering his manners. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, John. I’m just glad I could help.” Lestrade said. “Feel like standing?” At John’s nod, he held out a hand and helped John upright. 

John's gaze naturally searched out Sherlock, finding him frozen in the corner of the room like some awkward statue, his eyes drinking them in from afar. One glance at his face told John how serious things had been. Sherlock looked destroyed. John took one step, and Sherlock broke from his paralysis to surge forward, gathering John into his arms. Sherlock said nothing, merely held him tightly as he pressed his cheek against the top of John’s head. John felt the last of the tension he didn’t realize he was holding leave his body in a whoosh as he buried his face against Sherlock's chest.

“Now, now, let’s get John to bed. I’m sure he could use some rest after all that excitement.” Grand-mère said. 

“Yes, that and a little tea with honey and lemon would be good too.” Professor Lestrade added. 

“Of course,” Grand-mère clucked. “Come along now, off we go.” She pried John gently away from her grandson, keeping an arm around John’s shoulders as she chivvied him along. Sherlock followed automatically, chewing at his thumbnail, and looking as miserable as a month of Mondays. John tried to shoot him a reassuring glance, but Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the floor as he drifted behind them. 

“Gregory, I think I owe you a dinner at the very least.” John heard Mycroft say somewhere behind him as they finally reached the stairs. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google assures me that "Meilleurs Voeux" means "Best Wishes" en anglais. 
> 
> ***
> 
> Dearest readers, I sit in front of the Mirror of Erised watching kudos and comments coming my way. Help make it true before I waste away here! ^.~


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A summer holiday for the lads is sun, and sand, and coffee-kisses until it's time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my kind betas for their help. Fairy lights, cauldron cakes and hot tea to the-navel-treatment and otp221b to drive the dark winter away!

***

John blinked awake to late-morning sun streaming in through the bedroom curtains. His first thought was that he’d woefully overslept. His next thought was that a small furred animal must have crawled into his mouth and died during the night. John panicked slightly when he tried to roll off his back and couldn’t. He relaxed when he realized he simply had an impossibly-long leg thrown across him, pinning the lower half of his body to the mattress.

“John, how do you feel?” Sherlock’s head of tangled curls popped up to fill his line of view.

“Like a lorry ran over me.”

Sherlock’s face pinched tight as if he too were in great pain.

“Hey, hey.” John reached up to smooth back the hair that had tumbled across Sherlock’s forehead. “I’m fine. Really.” The fit of coughing that followed seemed to belie his words.

“At least you’re breathing.” Sherlock observed wryly. He rolled over to retrieve a small stoppered bottle on the night stand. “Here drink this. Grand-mère sent some throats-ease potion. It should help.” 

Sherlock helped John sit against the pillows so he could swallow the contents of the bottle. The golden potion tingled in a pleasing fashion all the way down. “Ah, that’s nice.”John sighed feeling markedly better once it reached his stomach. 

“Good. John, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock twisted his fingers together in his lap. “I can’t believe I was stupid enough to leave you alone . . .”

“Hey, stop right there.” John held up a palm. “I’m not a baby, Sherlock. I am a prefect going into my seventh year for Godsake. I did something stupid all on my own. It’s not your fault.”

“But if I’d been in the room I could have stopped it.” Sherlock balled his hands into fists.

“You don’t know that, love.” John sighed, reaching out to take one of Sherlock’s hands. The taller boy relaxed as John threaded their fingers together. “You might have drunk from the cup too if you’d been there. It was very compelling. The important thing is it worked out alright in the end.”

“No thanks to sodding Alastaire,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Dear Alastaire.” John shook his head. “How is the bleeding git this morning?”

“He and his family left early. I watched them apparating off the back lawn.” Sherlock nodded toward the window. “Auntie Cressida looked furious.”

“I can’t say I’m sad to see him go.” John snorted.

“No, me either,” Sherlock said. “John, I know I flew off the handle with him, but the sight of you on the floor . . .” Sherlock tensed up again.

“Shh, it’s over,” John said, pulling Sherlock down into his arms.

They jolted apart at a knock on the door, quickly pulling blankets more decently around them. Marie appeared tutting and smiling with a tray of breakfast. They took their time clearing their plates, and by the time they emerged, washed and dressed from the cocoon of Sherlock’s room, the day was already half over. John was very relieved to find that the guests had cleared off already, save Philippe who practically lived there. After poking around a bit, they managed to locate Grand-mère Holmes and Philippe ensconced in a front parlor as she opened her birthday gifts.

“Oh, Jean, dear. How are you feeling?” The gracious lady called for tea, and wanted to fuss further over John, but he waved her off, assuring her that he was feeling much improved.

Sherlock remained his close shadow throughout, sitting pressed shoulder to knee with him on a settee as they watched Grand-mère Holmes sifting through her many packages, choosing the next to open.

“We’re lucky you’re such a sturdy lad.” Philippe smiled kindly at John as Mrs. Holmes unwrapped a tin of biscuits. “Not many would do so well after an encounter with a cursed object.”

“Oh well . . . “ John shrugged helplessly, not knowing what else to say. He was still feeling rather embarrassed about the whole thing.

“Why do you keep such things, Tessa, really . . .” Philippe complained, rounding on Mrs. Holmes. 

“Philippe, they come with the house.” She sighed, placing the biscuits to the side. “If I tried to clear out all the old magic here, we might as well just knock the whole place over and start again.” She shook her head. “The family would never let me hear the end of it.”

John thought of the line of portraits down the long corridors, and imagined them all scolding at once as the older couple bickered good naturedly for a few more moments. It was obviously an old conversation rehashed again. Their argument ended when Philippe passed Mrs. Holmes a brightly wrapped box.

“Here, this one next. It’s mine.”

She tore into the pink paper with a small smile. “Ooh, a scarf,” She exclaimed, lifting out a long gauzy confection. It arranged itself artfully around her throat with no coaxing, and she laughed delightedly.

“It suits you, _mon chaton.”_ Philippe watched her with soft eyes, their argument already forgotten.

Mrs. Holmes gushed over Sherlock’s gift when she reached it. “Oh, Sherlock, this is lovely!” She cradled the small jeweled box in her palm to watch the way it caught the afternoon sunlight.

“It holds 6 cubic metres of volume,” Sherlock volunteered solemnly.

“Oh, _mon cher. Viens là.”_

Sherlock rose and moved closer to his grandmother, stooping to allow her to press kisses to each of his cheeks.

_“Merci, merci!”_ she crowed.

John patted Sherlock’s thigh when he rejoined him on the sofa. Sherlock peeked at him from under his fringe, flashing a little smile. It made John’s heart beat faster just to see it. "Softie," he whispered.

“Ah, this one’s from your mother, Sherlock,” Grand-mère Holmes said peering at the gift tag on a lavender box smothered in a froth of ribbons. “Shame Violet couldn’t join us this year. She’s been so busy lately.”

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum in reply.

“Ah, well, look at that,” Grand-mère said staring into the box she had worked open. She pulled out what looked like crockery from the mess of tissue paper holding it. It was a teapot painted around like a black and white spotted cat with its crooked tail for a handle. The pot gave a small meow as she turned it to admire it from all sides. “What an odd thing.” She clucked. The cat hissed loudly, and she almost dropped it in surprise.

 

***

 

“You’ll write dear. Make sure you’ll write, yes?”

“Yes, of course. Grand-mère . I’ll get you the address in Germany as soon as I have it," Sherlock said as his grandmother hugged him tight about the middle. “We have some time yet.”

“Yes, your holiday in Greece, of course. Do enjoy yourselves.” She smiled as she stepped back.

“Thanks so much, and thank you for having me to stay,” John said, remembering his manners.

“You are so welcome, Jean. But oh, you poor dear.” Grand-mère Holmes patted John’s cheek as he and Sherlock stood in the hallway ready to depart, rucksacks and bags of baked goods weighing them down. “Left at Hogwarts all alone next year.” She clucked her tongue in sympathy.

“Well, he’ll hardly be alone.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John has loads of mates.”

“It’s not the same,” the older lady protested. “You’re off to adventures, but he’s left behind. How will the two of you manage with a whole year apart?”

John felt something sinking through him like a lump of lead falling through wet paper. He swallowed deeply, and tried for a smile. “Yeh, it’s a rotten thing.” John shot a look at Sherlock, but Sherlock was busy fixing a strap over his shoulder. “I expect we’ll manage somehow though.”

“There are portkeys. We can visit one another.” Sherlock huffed, obviously unwilling to be dragged down into sentiment. “Speaking of which?”

“Yes of course, dear.” Grand-mère Holmes turned to retrieve a large conch shell from a nearby shelf. “This one is keyed to the summer house.” She handed it to Sherlock, and he finally flicked his eyes up to John as he extended it. John smiled and touched his fingers to one side of the shell.

 _“Reviens me voir bientôt, chouchou.”_ Grand-mère smiled wistfully.

 _“Bien sûr, grandmama.”_ Sherlock’s face softened.

She retrieved her wand from a pocket and waved it over the shell, whispering a few words.

 _“Au revoir!”_ She called as the now familiar sensation hooked John just under the belly button and he was pulled into suffocating darkness.

John caught a good breath as their feet landed on smooth tile. He let go of the conch shell and glanced around the open main room of the villa. It was just as he remembered – all potted palms, wicker furniture, and tall windows looking onto the sand and sea outside.

“Brilliant!” John grinned. “I can’t wait to get to the beach!” 

The last time John had visited the summer house, it had been situated in his mother’s back garden due to Sherlock’s clever magic. While they could easily walk anywhere about the house, the beach beckoning from the windows remained maddeningly out of reach, still far away in Greece.

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock inhaled deeply letting his bags sink to the floor. He dropped the portkey shell into a large white bowl on a nearby table with a clink.

“Here, let me put the food in the kitchen,” John said, scooping up the large brown paper bag Sherlock had dropped. He carried it with one of his own across the living room, and into the back where he knew the kitchen lay.

“Wow, this is ace!” John called out opening the fridge to find it fully stocked with food and drinks. A pair of lanky arms worked their way around John as a tall body squashed up along his backside. It was an odd contrast, cold air in front, and sweet heat pressed behind.

“I had to tell Mycroft the dates we’d be here.” Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled by John’s ear. “He obviously made himself useful.”

“Brilliant. We won’t starve.” John smiled.

“I know what I’m hungry for right now.” Sherlock bit lightly at the side of John’s neck, and John felt a shiver roll up his spine.

“Budge up, love, let me at least get the fridge closed before you start snacking on me.” 

“I have plans to take you in every room in this house,” Sherlock growled, but he did move back enough to allow John to close the door.

“Ah.” John turned in the surprisingly strong arms that bracketed him, and met Sherlock’s lips in enthusiastic reply. When long fingers slipped down to cradle his arse, grinding their pelvises closer, John turned his head in protest, breaking the snog. “Stop, stop, I really do want to see the beach first.” He laughed.

“If we must,” Sherlock grumbled, but it was good-natured, and he lifted his head to glance out at the searing blue of the sky that called from outside.

It was still some time later before they finally changed into swimsuits and made to leave the house, accompanied by a ridiculous amount of things in procession. Sherlock had waved his wand and a beach umbrella, some folding chairs and several thick towels had emerged from a storage closet to follow them to the back door.

“So it’s a Wizard beach, then?” John asked. “Magic is okay?”

“Completely shielded from Muggles,” Sherlock confirmed. John nodded and pulled out his wand as well to summon a pitcher of juice and two glasses from the kitchen to follow.

They found a place to set up camp in the soft white sand apart from the few other sunbathers, several metres from the edge of the clear blue water. John abandoned things almost immediately to charge toward the beckoning waves. John whooped at the first splash of warm water, turning to grin widely at Sherlock trailing after. Sherlock returned the smile with a quick flash of teeth as he caught up. They waded deeper together, letting the gentle waves lap at their chests and bellies.

A Wizard family, parents and a two young children made their way past them, strolling along the shoreline. The mother looked nervous as the smallest boy kept wandering off, chasing the white foam of the waves. The father took out his wand, and with a word, the child bounced away from the water to join his parents higher on the sand. The child started to cry, but the father scooped him up to ride on his shoulders, and they continued on with smiles.

John looked about, marveling at how clear the achingly-blue water was around them. He could see straight to the sandy bottom for metres and metres beyond. “Wow, this is amazing. Simply gorgeous.”

“This place has always been a favourite of mine.” Sherlock squinted into the bright light beside him.

John turned to look at him properly, and caught his breath. Christ, he was lovely, all pale ropey limbs and a riot of dark curls clinging to his forehead or blowing about in the breeze. His clear blue eyes almost exactly matched the azure waters around them. John must have looked right gobsmacked because Sherlock frowned slightly, tilting his head. His plump lips parted as he made to say something, and John couldn’t stand it, couldn’t bear another moment of not kissing Sherlock. He hauled him down and covered Sherlock’s dream of a mouth with his own, tasting the briny seawater on the tall boy’s lips. Sherlock kissed back warmly, bringing the sweep of a tongue into the equation, and John quite lost his head mapping each taste and feel and noise of the slippery man in his arms. A sudden tickling across his lower legs ripped a yelp from John as he broke away in surprise. He looked down to watch bright streamers of colour in the clear waters winding around his legs and passing on.

“God, what is that?” John cried.

“Ribbon fish,” Sherlock said. “You only find them in Wizard waters. They’re harmless.”

“Lovely,” John breathed watching them twist away now that his fright was over. By mutual consent they took off swimming in the clear water, following the school of brightly flashing fish until they went too deep and they had to return to the shallows.

When they finally tired of messing about in the gorgeously warm water, John and Sherlock dragged themselves up the beach to collapse across their fabric chairs. John poured them each a glass of red juice, and they drank in companionable silence as they relaxed into boneless heaps.

“This.” John looked out at the sea, a turquoise line stretching to the horizon, pretty as a postcard. “Now this is a proper vacation.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbled in assent, rolling onto his belly to rest his head on his crossed forearms.

John felt terrible when they finally climbed the path back to the house. All of Sherlock’s visible bits had gone a horrid shade of pink that looked ready to deepen to something worse in the hours to come. John himself had gone a bit red as well, but his skin tanned better than the acres of delicate British skin that graced Sherlock’s person.

“Oh, Sherlock, look at you. Are there skin potions in the house or do I need to go buy something?”

“I’m sure there’s some bottles in the loo,” Sherlock sniffed, reaching the door off the back patio before John. “It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Love, you look like a boiled lobster! I should have remembered the sunscreen . . .” John clucked his tongue as they crossed into the cool dark of the house. He nearly stumbled into Sherlock as his boyfriend stopped dead in front of him.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock spat out. “What are YOU doing here?” 

John stepped around Sherlock to peer sun-blinded into the sitting room. In a moment his eyes adjusted to bring a Mycroft-shaped lump in the sitting room into focus.

“Good evening to you too, brother dear. John.” Mycroft nodded companionably at them both as he folded his newspaper, setting it aside. He was dressed in his usual impeccable pinstriped robe and settled comfortably in one of the wicker armchairs. It was an odd sight. “I see you enjoyed the beach for at least three,” his eyes flicked carelessly over them, “no four hours today.”

“Hullo, Mycroft.” John waved weakly.

“MY. CROFT. What are you doing here?” Sherlock repeated.

“Even the Ministry of Magic takes time off in August,” Mycroft said evenly. “I had a few free days and thought I’d spend them at the villa. Lovely time of year for a visit, isn’t it?” A not-very-natural-looking smile unspooled itself across his face.

“Bollocks!” Sherlock cried. “You KNEW we had the house this week. Why you had to come stick your overly-long nose . . .”

Mycroft held up an elegant hand to stop the tirade. “Sherlock, the villa belongs to the entire family. Perhaps I fancied a bit of a break as well? Besides, there are enough rooms here that we hardly have to see each other if we don’t wish to.”

“I’m not a child.” Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, wincing only slightly at the pull on sunburnt skin. “I . . . we don’t require a minder.” He glanced back at John who did his best to give an encouraging smile.

“No certainly not.” Mycroft retrieved his wand to summon a large purple bottle that soared into his hand. “Aloe-dittany cream?” He asked, extending the bottle with one eyebrow delicately arched.

Sherlock remained standing stonily where he was, but John stepped forward to accept the bottle. “Ta, Mycroft.”

Sherlock continued glaring daggers at his older brother.

“Come now, Sherlock. I’ve made reservations at Esperos. You’ve always been so fond of their moussaka. We can leave at seven.”

“Fine,” Sherlock ground out through clenched teeth.

When John led the way to get changed from their wet things, Mycroft caught Sherlock’s arm as he made to follow him.

“A word in private, if you don’t mind.” He spared a glance toward John poised at the foot of the stairs.

“Mycroft you can certainly speak in front of . . .” Sherlock began hotly.

“No, no, it’s fine.” John flashed a quick smile and continued to Sherlock’s bedroom upstairs. The acoustics of the house were such that John could still catch a few words from below on the upstairs gallery. He distinctly caught “grand-mère ” and “after-effect of poison” and his own name a few times.

A much more subdued-looking Sherlock joined him upstairs a few minutes later.

“Look, I’m fine. You know I am. It’s alright,” John said as he sat Sherlock on the edge of the bed and set about coating him with the dittany potion. He was happy to see the angry colour receding with each swipe of the cream.

Sherlock harrumphed, but refused to speak more on what Mycroft had told him. He insisted on smearing some of the cream on John, arguing that John’s shoulders were looking rather red as well. His hands brushed over John’s shoulders and back in gentle, almost reverent sweeps.

“Hey.” John reached out to catch Sherlock’s wrist after he set the bottle on the bedside table. “You didn’t mess up, alright. It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock turned haunted eyes his way. “John, if Lestrade hadn’t been there, with the bezoar . . .”

“Well, he was. Come on. Enough. I’m in Greece with my sexy boyfriend and we have an hour and a half until dinner. Whatever shall we do with our free time?” John waggled his eyebrows comically. Sherlock laughed aloud, and let John tumble him back across the bed.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Sherlock offered before meeting John’s mouth in a fierce kiss. They came together in a rough tangle of limbs, practically devouring each other. “John,” Sherlock whispered beside John’s ear. “I’m afraid.” He gulped. “I’m afraid that I’m going to gobble you up. Swallow you whole, and they’ll be nothing left.”

“God, yes,” John breathed, turning to suck along Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock moaned from somewhere deep in his belly, and no more words were spoken for quite some time.

Dinner turned out to be a merry affair. The owner of the restaurant knew the Holmes family well, and insisted on sending dish after dish of gorgeous food to their table to sample. They sipped ouzo and ate fresh seafood over flickering candles while Mycroft told such funny tales about some visiting dignitaries from the Balkans that even Sherlock had to giggle.

The rest of the holiday passed in a pleasantly indolent haze. Many hours were spent lounging on the beach or paddling in the sea, and Sherlock’s cheeks and nose remained pink no matter how much sunscreen they slathered on. One afternoon had them poking about some nearby Wizard shops where John got Sherlock a seashell that played a lively Greek tune, and Sherlock bought John a mug painted around with ribbon fish that kept tea warm for hours. They found a small café that served mocha frappes to die for, and went back three times. John melted every time he listened to Sherlock rattling off fluent Greek to the locals. A permanently goofy grin seemed to have settled across his face. Sherlock would smile sweetly back every time he caught John watching him, little crinkles bracketing his gorgeous almond-shaped eyes. John decided he was going to write poetry about those little crinkles as soon as he had pen and paper in hand. The thought of being back at school though was too horrible to contemplate, and John quickly stuffed it away to return to coffee-flavoured kisses, and long flowing days of sea, and sand, and sex as languid as the rhythmic sounds of surf pounding outside their bedroom window.

Mycroft was as good as his word, mostly keeping to himself for the rest of the week either settled in an upstairs study with only the coming and going of owls as evidence of his presence, or else out and about, returning only for bedtime. He announced he wouldn’t be back one evening as he had an engagement in London. Sherlock teased him horribly about having a hot date, and though Mycroft reddened a bit over his cheekbones, he gave nothing away as he bid them good-night, took a portkey stone from a black bowl in the foyer, and disappeared.

They put their un-chaperoned night to grand use, drinking retsina and making out in the sitting room on the padded settee with the windows open wide to the moonlit susurrus of the waves outside, then taking the party up to the huge tub on the first floor. John laughed and got bubbles up his nose when Sherlock pretended to be a shark stalking him through the bath. It was lucky they had magic wands to later siphon up all the water they splashed across the floor.

Mycroft didn’t appear until the next afternoon, arriving as Sherlock was in the midst of instructing John on how to apparate in a small field near the house.

“Merlin’s beard! Did you even remember to put up wards before you started?” Mycroft cried, marching up to join them, his light summer robe flapping about his legs. “Honestly, Sherlock. Do you WANT John to end up at the bottom of the ocean?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose adorably, looking quite put out at having his teaching skills called into question. John had to laugh at him, though he was secretly quite pleased to have Mycroft’s help as he made his first attempts at apparating. So far things had been an utter flop. After an hour of trying, he still hadn’t managed to move himself as much as an inch further down the field.

“So, you’re looking rather . . . chipper today, though not very well rested.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he raked his eyes over Mycroft, clearly ready to torment his brother on his mysterious night away.

“And you two got completely pissed last night. Should I help you keep John from splinching himself or go back to the villa for a nap?”

“Oh fine, stay, then.” Sherlock huffed, ill-temperedly conceding his need for Mycroft’s help.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock to spend another patient hour coaching John in transporting himself magically. John cheered, fist pumping into the air when he finally manage to apparate a few paces along the field. He only left his right eyebrow behind, and as Mycroft reattached the missing facial hair with a quick wave of his wand, it hardly counted as an error.

“I think that’s quite enough progress for one morning. Good job, John.” Mycroft patted John awkwardly on the shoulder. “Not many make this much of a leap on their first day’s go.” He flicked his eyes Sherlock’s way, but Sherlock was too busy rushing over to throw his arms around John, spinning him about to notice.

“Well, then.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Shall we retire to the house for tea? I brought something back you two might enjoy.”

It wasn’t until they were seated around the table enjoying the box of pastries Mycroft had ferried with him from London that the older man leaned in and skewered Sherlock.

Sherlock started the banter. “So, is Lestrade trying to feed you UP, then?” He grinned around a mouthful of blueberry scone.

“Change the subject, Sherlock,” Mycroft had chided, taking a delicate sip of tea. “Speaking of a new subject. Mummy wants you and John over for dinner tomorrow.”

“AAAArrr, Mycroft.” Sherlock whinged, swallowing hard. “Tomorrow’s our last day. I wanted to spend it all here, not go back earlier for _dinner._ ”

“Come now. You have to stop back at the house anyway to collect your things, and Mummy hasn’t seen you all summer.”

“Well, that’s hardly my fault, is it?” Sherlock huffed.

“Much as it pains me to say this, we do have to leave soon no matter what,” John jumped in. “Besides, love, I wanted to see your house, where you grew up.”

Sherlock turned his head toward John, hesitating. Something on John’s face softened him though.

“All right, fine. So tonight’s our last night, then.”

“We’ll make it special,” John promised.

John and Sherlock spent the rest of the day on the beach building sand castles and swimming in the crystalline waters. Each cry of a gull, or rush of a wave felt like a keepsake to tuck away. They dined at a cozy table for two at a nearby Wizard taverna they’d discovered for dinner, dipping fresh bread into olive oil, and feeding each other bites from their plates. When a photographer came by and snapped a picture of them, John paid the man, and accepted the print proudly. Sherlock’s hair was a mad riot in the humid air. 

“Ugh, I look like a poodle,” he complained.

John watched as his photographic self leaned in to drop a smooch to Sherlock’s cheek. Good man. “You look fabulous to me, love. Good enough to eat.” He grinned. Sherlock pinked a bit and agreed to split a serving of baklava for pudding even though they were both stuffed.

Later, they went back to walk along the shoreline barefoot, hand in hand, watching the moon lay a trail of silver over the rushing waves. John tipped his head back when they stopped to view the sweep of stars scattered across the inky black above. 

“I’m going to miss you, John,” Sherlock said in a small, pinched voice beside him.

“Christ, Sherlock, how are we even going to do this?” John dropped his head feeling suddenly utterly bereft. It was too big to hold, this feeling rising over him as wide and deep as the ocean at their feet.

Then Sherlock was in his arms and they were kissing madly, all mashed lips and clicking teeth trying to get closer, impossibly closer together. One or the other of them started their return back to the house, and then they were stumbling into Sherlock’s bedroom, pulling the door closed, falling to the bed to learn each all over again, pressing hot mouths to each inch of skin uncovered, memorizing each touch.

John woke hours later, thirsty, and pushed up on this elbow to find the bed empty beside him. A quick frantic glance found Sherlock across the room naked at the window. He was so gorgeous, nearly glowing where the moonlight spilled over his pale skin. His sharp hipbone looked almost like a bird’s wing, so delicate and fragile in the silvery light. He seemed almost alien, and so terribly far away. A want so strong it hurt surged up in John throat. 

“Sherlock,” he croaked.

Sherlock’s head turned toward his voice, his face a blank of shadows.

“Come back to bed,” John whispered into the dark. Sherlock came instantly crawling into John’s arms, all familiar heat and soft skin, and they wrapped together with a bone deep sigh.

They managed to fit in one last morning visit to the beach, swimming in the gorgeous blue water sparkling in the early sun. Every portion the of day seemed to bring a whole new character to the shifting place where sun and sand met surf, and John knew that he would miss it terribly. After lunch, they tried another successful round of apparating where John moved even further down the field, and no eyebrows were harmed. Mycroft left them to their own devices until it was time to dress and leave the villa for good, and then he chivvied them upstairs to get ready. John dug his heartstone bracelet out of his bag and fixed it over his wrist. They’d left them off for most of the week with all the time spent in the saltwater. Sherlock came back from the loo, and smiled at the sight of it.

“Yes, good idea, John.” Sherlock found his own and put it on as well. They marveled for a moment at the way the stones pulsed when they laced hands together, bringing their wrists side by side.

“Lovely, just lovely,” John said looking from the bracelets up into Sherlock’s blue-green eyes. “Sherlock, your mum. Do you think she’ll like me?”

“I don’t give a damn what she thinks about most things.” Sherlock shrugged. “But she’d be a fool not too. You’re perfect.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.” John smiled.

“Gentlemen, we depart shortly.” Mycroft’s snappish voice drifted in from the hallway.

Bags packed, good robes on, they gave a last look over, but everything they needed to take seemed to have been already packed. John was grateful once more for the quick travel modes for Wizards. Wasting a whole day of their holiday traveling back to Britain would have been horrid.

“Good-bye holiday house,” John said as they gathered in the foyer by the portkey bowls.

“Good-bye house,” Sherlock echoed wistfully looking about. “I wish we didn’t have to go.”

“Oh come, you two. It’s not so bad as all that, going to dinner. There might even be treacle tart for afters if you’re lucky,” Mycroft teased.

“Mycroft, I’m not five,” Sherlock complained, but looked slightly mollified as they gathered close to lay a finger to the smooth stone in Mycroft’s outstretched palm.

Things felt easier to John this time as the portkey jolted them a great distance, and they landed on the gravel of a drive before a grand stone manor. John glanced about as he caught his breath at the huge structure that loomed over them. Formal gardens that obviously went on for some distance stretched off beyond.

“Wow, this is . . .” A terrible shriek split the air, and John cried out as he jumped. His panic quickly ebbed when he realized the noise had come from the several large birds stalking past the hedges. They spread their lovely long feathers behind them as one opened its beak and another chilling cry joined the first.

“Oh, my, look at that, erm, peacocks.” John tried to pretend he hadn’t just nearly leapt out of his skin at the unexpected, but harmless noise.

“Stupid things.” Sherlock wrinkled his brow. “I’m sorry we didn’t just arrive inside the house. Mummy thinks it’s bad manners to apparate directly inside.”

“Ah well, no worries.” John tried to smile, feeling a bit like a git already.

The ornate door swung open as they climbed the front steps, and John tried not to stare at the house elf dressed in a knobby old tea cozy that greeted them.

“Welcome Master Mycroft, Master Sherlock, and honoured guest.”

“Hello Weena.” Mycroft nodded in return. “Is Mummy in the front parlour?”

“She’s in the conservatory, sirs.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft turned back to glance at John and Sherlock. “Shall we?” He swept his hand out to the right toward a long corridor that must lead to the conservatory.

“We are taking your bags, young sirs?” Weena asked politely..

“Oh, yes of course,” Sherlock said.

John watched surprised as Weena snapped her fingers and two more house elves appeared to accept their rucksacks.

“Sherlock, how many house elves do you have?” John asked from the side of his mouth as they continued down the dimly-lit hallway following Mycroft.

“It was six last time I was here,” Sherlock said stiffly. His shoulders had been drifting up towards his ears ever since their arrival. “It might have changed.”

Sherlock looked so tense that John stopped himself from asking any more questions. He knew that wealthy, old Wizarding families often had a house elf with their estate, but having as many as six for a private residence? Well. That was something.

John tried to take in everything as they moved along. The tapestries, and old suits of armor in the corners made the place as atmospheric as Hogwarts, but it was so dark, he really couldn’t make out many details. After a bend in the corridor, they finally emerged into a room with some light to it.

The brightness of the wide glassed-in space filled with plants felt like the promised land after the dark of the hallway. A woman with a long sweep of icy-blonde hair stood with her back to them using her wand to gather blooms from a variety of flowering bushes. 

“Good evening, Mummy,” Mycroft said.

“My!” The woman rounded on them. “How good to see you! And Sherlock, there you are.” She raised her eyebrows in surprised delight as if Sherlock had been playing at hide and seek in the garden, and just agreed to come in. Mycroft moved forward to drop a kiss on her cheek.

“Hello, Mummy,” Sherlock intoned dutifully from where he stood.

With a final wave, she sent the cut flowers sailing toward a bucket in the corner, and slipped her wand away. “Oh, come here and give your mother a kiss.” She chided her second son, tipping her face his way so that Sherlock had no choice but to step forward and press his lips to her other rouged cheek. John could have picked this woman out of a large crowd as being Sherlock’s mother. From her elegant cheekbones, to her pale almond-shaped eyes, she was nearly Sherlock’s twin. Only her fair hair colour and more rounded chin set their looks apart at all. “Look how tall you’ve gotten!” she exclaimed.

Sherlock merely rumbled some noise and stepped back closer to John once the kiss had been bestowed.

Finally the woman swung her pale gaze from Sherlock’s face to land on John. “And this must be your new friend. John, how lovely to meet you. Your family has been so kind to have Sherlock over so many times.”

“Ah, no worries. We, uh . . . I was happy to have him. We all . . .erm . . . enjoyed him.” John trailed off lamely.

Sherlock’s mother might have shared the same striking features as her son, but where his angular face danced alive with emotion, hers was elegant marble. She smiled, but the expression did not journey far enough to reach her eyes. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Violet Holmes Blackwell,” she said, extending a slim hand.

John took it with some confusion, shaking it politely. “John Watson. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

A noise in the corridor drew their gazes toward the door as a tall man with a small mustache stepped out of the dark to join them.

“Such impeccable timing, darling. The boys just arrived. Come and meet Sherlock’s friend, John.” Sherlock’s mother beckoned the new arrival over with an elegant twist of her wrist.

“How do you, son?” The man smiled just enough to tilt his mustache, as he took John’s hand firmly, pumping it up and down several times before finally releasing it.

“How do you do, sir?” John managed, completely flummoxed. When he glanced back at Sherlock for some explanation, his boyfriend was chewing on his lower lip and staring toward the floor, avoiding John’s gaze completely.

Mycroft cleared his throat rather pointedly. “I think perhaps Sherlock might have failed to mention our stepfather. John, this is Basil Blackwell.”

“Oh, Sherlock. He does love his little games, doesn’t he?” His mother trailed a shrill little laugh as she moved to take her husband’s arm. “Mycroft we were hoping you could take a look at the portfolio while you were here and see if Basil’s stocks are in the right places?”

“Yes, of course, Mummy.” Mycroft moved to follow as his mother steered her husband toward the open door.

“Oh, and Sherlock,” she called over her shoulder. “Cocktails are at 7:30 as usual. Why don’t you take your little friend up to your room and you can get changed into something nicer for dinner.”

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock mumbled at their retreating backs.

John refrained from saying anything again as a weirdly-quiet Sherlock led the way through another series of dark corridors and up a winding stairway. They finally arrived at a tall wooden door that Sherlock opened to lead John into the brighter room within. John got only a fleeting impression of a wrought-iron bed, and a room filled with shelves and cupboards bursting with stuff before he rounded on his boyfriend. 

“Sherlock, for Godsake. Why didn’t you tell me you had a stepfather?”

Sherlock finally met John’s eye, looking so upset that John regretted his outburst immediately. “I’m sorry, John, I know I should have told you earlier. I think about Basil as little as possible.” He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I didn’t tell you about him when we first got together, and then there never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. I’m sorry I put you in such an awkward spot back there.”

“Oh Sherlock, hang it, I don’t care about that. Come here.” John reached out and pulled Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock remained stiff for just a moment before relaxing, and winding his arms around John as well.

“I’m an idiot,” he huffed against John’s hair.

“No, no, of course not.” John traced a soothing circle around Sherlock’s back. “How old were you when your mum married him?”

“Ten,” Sherlock said, pulling back to meet John’s eyes. “I hardly had a chance to get to know him before I was off to Hogwarts. Though, he’s hardly worth spending any time getting to know. I tried at first, you know, before I realized he has the personality of bread mold, and moved on to more worthwhile projects.”

“Oh, love, I’m sorry.” John brushed the curls that had tumbled into Sherlock’s face back off his forehead.

“It’s fine, really. I’m hardly ever here. I never see them.” Sherlock broke away to cross the room and open a cupboard. 

While Sherlock rummaged through the contents, John took a chance to better look about his old room. Their rucksacks were neatly deposited at the foot of the double bed, obviously due to the attentive house elves. While the basics of the room were fairly monochromatic with the demure grey of the bedding and the stark white of the walls, Sherlock had managed to fill the space with all manner of brightly-coloured things. Lively posters of famous wizards mugged and posed from the walls, while heaps of books in all shapes and sizes competed for space with odds and ends crammed onto the many shelves. John chuckled as he looked over Sherlock's vast collection of things, why anyone thought Sherlock might be sorted into anything other than Ravenclaw was beyond him, but it was an old toy bat that caught his eye.

“A teddy?” John asked pulling the battered creature from the bookcase he’d been set on.

“Oh, Fang,” Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Fang.” John smiled. “I like him.”

“I wanted to bring him along to Hogwarts, but Mycroft convinced me I’d only be teased.”

“Oh, poor fellow,” John said, giving the bat a rub to his plushie belly. “You should have brought him. I took a stuffed dog my first year, and no one said anything. I think they were all busy hiding their own lovies.”

Sherlock grunted in reply as he hauled out some bags and boxes from the bottom of the cupboard.

John set the much-loved bat on the bedside table, and wandered up behind Sherlock, glancing at the many things besides clothes shoved into his wardrobe. “So, what’s all this?” He gestured to what looked like action figures crammed together on the shelves inside.

“I told you I liked putting dioramas together as a child.”

“Alright, let’s see the lot.” John nodded with his chin toward the collection.

Sherlock flashed a quick grin, and with a few waves of his wand, summoned the many figures and scenery bits out onto the floor. Sherlock had every sort of magical creature imaginable fashioned out of clay. John whistled at the sight of them.

“Well, let’s get them set up properly then,” John said.

Soon they lost themselves completely in artfully arranging the tiny figures around the room. “Here’s the mountains,” Sherlock said rucking up the duvet to pose the giants across the bed. John used stacks of books to create a fortress on the floor.

“We’re ready for them.” John chortled. “Sherlock, these are all amazing.” He lifted one of the kelpie figures to better admire it. “But even these swamp trees are a work of art.” John gestured to the row of them around his makeshift castle. “You’ve a real talent, love.”

“Thanks, it took me days to find something that would drape well for the leaves. I found some moss in the garden . . .”

They were surprised when a silvery tiger leapt into the room. The apparition opened its mouth, and Mummy's voice flooded the room. “Sherlock, stop playing with your dolls, and come downstairs for dinner. And DO change your clothes. We have guests.” The patronus winked out of sight once its message had been delivered.

Sherlock sighed deeply. With a few passes of his wand, he sent the diorama things back into hiding in his cupboard.

“Guests?” John said. “I didn’t know there’d be others here.”

“No, me either,” Sherlock said. “My mother is truly the one who enjoys her little games.”

“What’s wrong with our clothes?” John asked, brushing off his knees as they stood upright. “These are nice robes.”

“They’re fine. Mummy’s just being irritating.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John.” He sobered as he turned more fully to face him. “I am sorry about dragging you here. Please just ignore anything stupid anyone says at dinner, alright? We’ll get through it, and come right back up.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I wanted to see your room. Your sculptures were amazing. You are amazing. THANK YOU for showing me that.”

“John, you are a wonder. What did I ever do to deserve you?” Sherlock’s mouth did a little wobble before he reined it in.

“Hey, I’m the one getting the gorgeous, brilliant boyfriend here.”

Sherlock replied by crushing John to him, and burying his nose against his neck. They stood like for several minutes, just wrapped together until a nearly-transparent fox arrived to circle around them. “Sherlock, John, tidy yourselves, and DO come on. Dinner is being held for you,” Mycroft’s voice scolded.

“Best not keep Mycroft away from food.” Sherlock snorted, and the two of them separated to straighten their robes, brush their hair, and return downstairs.

***

John sneaked glances at the others sat around the table, and tried to pick the right spoon from the display of cutlery next to his plate. The dining room was a huge, drafty place, and the Holmes-Blackwell family and their guests only took up only a small portion of the long table that lay in the center of it. John tried smiling at the blonde girl sat across from him, but she merely ignored him to spoon up her soup.

Sherlock had lifted his lip in a sneer when they’d arrived to find another family had arrived to join them for dinner - the Goyles. The father was a thick-necked thing, but at least his two daughters took after their more-attractive mother. John recognized the younger one from school. Zara Goyle was a year below John in Slytherin. She nodded hello at introductions, but had yet to address anything directly to John afterwards. He could almost see her desire to be rude to him tempered by the fact that she remembered he was a prefect, and could make things difficult for her at school if he wished. The older girl, Tamsin, was sat across from Sherlock, and his mum had been extolling the two girls’ virtues to him throughout the dinner.

It was all “Sherlock, did you know Zara was top in her class for Charms?” or “Sherlock, did you hear that Tamsin is the youngest witch to head a division at the Ministry of Magic?” and the like all evening. When Mrs. Goyle simpered back with “Oh, and Violet, we heard that Sherlock was valedictorian for his graduating class. Congratulations! Such an honour!” Mrs. Holmes Blackwell had blinked as if surprised at the news.

Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to the whole exchange, pushing food around his plate between bites, but John was seething under his collar. It was like a day at the county fair with prize heifers on display.

House elves ghosted through the room all evening, refilling water and wine goblets, and carrying out new covered dishes at regular intervals. Mr. Blackwell and Mr. Goyle chortled on about the Chudley canons, and some proposed bit of legislation that might force Muggle-born Wizards to carry special cards. Mycroft hummed noncommittally occasionally, refusing to be drawn into anything, and John drank more wine than he meant to, he was feeling so twitchy. When they’d finally made their way to some small cakes and cheeses for pudding, John realized he needed to wee something terrible. He nudged Sherlock to ask where the toilet was.

“Sherlock where’s the . . .” suddenly the idea of saying “loo” or “toilet” seemed too low class for such a posh house, and John wondered if he ought to use “lavatory” or “facilities” instead. Thankfully while he hesitated, Sherlock knew exactly what he was asking, and nodded toward a doorway.

“The loo’s through there, first door on the left.”

“Thanks.” John smiled. He reached under the table to give Sherlock’s leg a quick squeeze before he mumbled “Excuse me, please.” to the rest of the table and headed down the indicated corridor.

John thought back to the small, worn-out loo at his mother’s house as he found the right room. The facilities were indeed impressive. A chandelier flared to life overhead as soon as he entered, and a fountain stood at the ready for washing in place of something as mundane as a sink. Thankfully the bog looked the same, and John relieved himself gratefully before washing up at the ornate waterfall contraption. As he stepped back into the hall, John heard buzzy whispers coming from the small room just across the way. Despite the rudeness of it, John found himself lingering to eavesdrop.

“ . . . can’t believe you would be so rude to a guest in my house,” a woman hissed.

“Well, I can’t believe you would even ask them over. What were you thinking?” A familiar baritone rumbled.

“I was thinking you’re out of school, and it’s time for you to start planning your future. Merlin knows SOMEONE needs to be thinking ahead around here,” the higher voice snapped.

“Mummy, I’m with JOHN now. I know Mycroft told you.”

“Sherlock, it’s fine to spend your summer larking about, but you’re an adult now, even if you aren’t acting like one. You have to think about settling down in a few years, starting a family.”

“Mother,” Sherlock spat. “You can disabuse yourself of the notion that I might ever marry one of the Goyles right now. I don’t even like girls.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” His mother countered, “You’ll marry as your duty to the family. What you do on the side is your business . . . as long as you keep it discreet.”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Sherlock’s voice had gone disturbingly icy. “This is not the Middle Ages, and I’m not having an arranged marriage for some antiquated notion of family honour. I’ve spent the whole of my life having to live down the fact my father died an ignorant Death Eater. I’m only going to say this once, Mummy. I’M. WITH. JOHN.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. How dare you insult your father. Sigerson Holmes was a great man. He died supporting the Wizard cause. If you want to mess about with some fairy mudblood I can’t stop you, but I’ll be damned if you’ll . . .”

“You’ve already DAMNED yourself, MOTHER as far as I’m concerned. I’ll not stay here and listen to you speak another word, you bigoted HARPY.” 

John was standing with his mouth hanging open when Sherlock burst into the hallway, his face dark with fury. “Come on, John, we’re leaving.”

Sherlock stomped to his bedroom with John at his heels. He watched as Sherlock crammed things willy nilly from his cupboard into a carpet bag before rising, wild eyed. “John, we aren’t that far from your house. We can apparate there in just a few stops if we’re careful.”

“Okay, alright.” John held up his palms in a calming gesture. “We can go, but is it safe to travel through Muggle space like that?”

“It’s dark. We’ll be alright. I just can’t stay here another minute.”

“Yeh, I get it,” John said, scooping up the few things he’d unpacked back into his rucksack. After a second, he added Fang in too.

“It’ll be easier if you side apparate with me,” Sherlock said settling his two bags across his back.

“Okay,”” John said, coming closer to take his arm.

“John.” Sherlock paused from his frenzied actions to focus on him. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Course I do.” John smiled. “God, I love you so much. Come on, let’s shove off.”

They heard a clatter of footsteps in the hallway. Someone was definitely coming up to find them.

The side of Sherlock’s mouth lifted up. “Hang on,” he said and launched. He pulled John with him from Holmes manor into the dark countryside. After a few jaunts, one that almost landed them inside some someone’s rubbish bins in a back garden, they arrived safely in the foyer of John’s home. 

“Whew.” John glanced about, grateful to reach their destination without any major mishap. Sadly, it looked extra shabby after seeing the grandeur of the Holmes manor only minutes before. John glanced over at Sherlock though, and saw how relieved he looked to be away from it all. John flashed him what he hoped was a soothing smile.

“Hello?” John’s mum voice reached them from upstairs.

“It’s just us mum, me and Sherlock,” John called up.

“OH, sweetie. I didn’t think you two would be back until tomorrow.” June Watson came down the stairs tying her old dressing gown, her hair up in some rag curlers. John felt something loosen and let go at just the familiar sight of her.

“Plans changed,” John said simply.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock added.

“MIND? I’m thrilled. I need someone to help me eat all the ice creams I packed the freezer with.” She smiled brightly. “Oh look how brown you two are. Come on, have a nosh, and tell me what you’ve been up to.”

John smiled gratefully as he watched his mother swing an arm around to hug Sherlock as she herded them toward the kitchen.

“I wasn’t sure if we’d have time to go shopping in London, so I had Simpson fetch your new schoolbooks.” She nodded toward the pile of books stacked on a nearby chest of drawers.

“OH, mum, thanks. You’re the tops.” John smiled tiredly.

“Now I remember Sherlock was fond of strawberry?” John’s mum asked tilting her head as she went toward the fridge.

“Yes, please.” Sherlock smiled widely, looking only half his actual age.

***

Their final day at Chez Watson was all laundry and packing, and nipping off to the local shops to buy new underwear and socks.

“Sherlock, did you want to find a Wizard shop for anything?” John asked him quietly as they stood in a Marks & Spencer waiting for John’s mum to emerge from the food section. John felt almost ill watching their last few hours together slipping away.

“Pants are pants.” Sherlock shrugged, still looking touched that John’s mum had picked some out for him too. 

Back at the house, Sherlock found an old picture of John in a Boy Scouts uniform. “Can I have it?” he asked, eyes shining.

“Yeh, sure. It won’t move like a Wizard photo though,” John warned.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said tucking it into one of his bags.

 

They had a huge farewell dinner that they’d all helped make. It was only slightly marred by John’s mum asking Sherlock lots of questions about Heidelberg and his internship with Herr Moser. John listened avidly to his answers of course, but he wanted to pretend for as long as possible that Sherlock wasn’t actually leaving. If he let his mind drift, he could almost pretend they’d both be going on the Hogwarts express to school tomorrow. After the last plate had been washed clean, John made a great show of yawning so that he and Sherlock could go to bed as soon as possible. June Watson wasn’t much fooled, but she kindly waved them off with nothing more than a reminder that morning came early, and not to stay up too late.

They got ready for bed in record time, finally stripping down to crawl under the covers together. 

“I wish the morning would never come,” John whispered, laying a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

“I know. That would be a fine spell, to stop time.”

“I don’t know that one.” John sighed. “We’ll just have to make the most of what we do have. My good kitty. My best kitty,” John crooned sucking at Sherlock’s neck until Sherlock was a babbling mess, melting under him, reaching around to grab John’s arse, pulling him down into oblivion with him.

***

Morning came too soon of course. Sherlock woke first, and John blinked his eyes open to find his love devouring him with his gorgeous cat’s eyes.

“Hey, you.” John tried to smile.

Sherlock said nothing, merely slid down to kiss John, winding them tighter together. They lay in bed, quietly in each other’s arms then, just breathing, trying to sink into each other’s skin if they could.

“When can we see each other?” John asked quietly.

They’d avoided this awful conversation as long as they could.

“I won’t have many proper weekends at first,” Sherlock said “but I should be able to get away at least once a month. I’ll sham sick if I need to.”

“Okay.” John drew in a shaky breath. 

“I’ll send an owl when I know more. I can take a portkey into Hogsmeade, and get us a room at an inn.”

“I’ll skive off prefect duties and Quidditch practice if I need to.” John reached out to trace a finger down the side of Sherlock’s face.

“You will?” Sherlock raised eyebrows in mock horror as he reared back. “John Hamish Watson, when did you get so wicked?”

“You’ve turned me to the dark side.” John chuckled.

Sherlock’s face slid into a small, sad little smile. “Never. Stay bright, John Watson. You’re my guiding light.”

“Oh what am I meant to say to that?” John complained. “Don’t get all sappy on me now, Holmes.”

“No, of course not." Sherlock looked ready to cry though, so John pulled him closer and dropped silly kisses all over his face until he was giggling. “I’ll write every day,” Sherlock said when John pulled back and he could catch his breath.

“I’ll write twice a day,” John returned, braver than he felt.

“JOHN, Sherlock, we need to leave in an hour,” John’s mum called up the stairs.

John turned his head toward the closed door. “OKAY, MUM!”

They rolled out of bed by necessity. There were still last-minute things to pack, and quick showers to take. John was just shoving the last of his socks into his trunk when Sherlock put a hand to his forearm.

“John, I’m not coming with you to London.”

“What?”

John felt like an icicle had just gone through his chest. He straightened up to see that Sherlock had his second–best robe on, his bags packed tight and slung over his shoulder. His clear greenish-blue eyes were tipped down at the corners to match his sloping mouth. He was serious.

“Why not?”

“We’ve a property near Cheswick, and I left some potions equipment there that I’d like to take with me to Heidelberg. I can’t really explain to anyone else what I need until I go look at it. Plus . . . John. I just can’t ride into London with you to King’s Cross and watch you get on the train. I just . . . can’t.”

John blew out a breath. “No, I get it. I do. I’m not sure I could say good-bye to you in front of other people either.”

“John,” Sherlock choked out in an awful voice.

They were on each other in an instant. Sherlock dropped his luggage, and wrapped John up in both his arms. They kissed as if they were trying to memorize each other, the smell, the feel, the whole person of each other pressed into a mental scrapbook to see them through the long days ahead.

John wasn’t sure how they were going to say good-bye. In the end they didn’t. Sherlock stepped away, and slung his bags over his shoulder. With eyes glinting wetly, Sherlock simply raised a hand before he turned and disapparated.

John sank down to the edge of the bed feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. So, they were doing this now. Right. He swallowed sharply, and ran his hands over his thighs back and forth.

John’s mum wrapped smartly at the door before cracking it open wide enough to poke her head in. “Alright you two slugabeds, time to go. There’s toast for the car . . .” She looked surprised as she glanced about finding only John inside. One look at John’s face told her the whole story.

“Oh, Johnny.” She moved to sit beside him on the bed. “I’m so sorry, luv.” She slid an arm around his back.

John crumpled, letting his face fall against his mother’s shoulder and gulped back a sob. Right. They could do this. Right.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I feel for the lads. I really do. ;(
> 
> ***
> 
> Do drop me a line if you enjoyed this chapter. Your kudos and comments are like sweet bars of chocolate chasing off the dementors' chill.
> 
> Authors Note: Many thanks for the French translation work from a lovely reader - Mathilde. She has Grand-mère Holmes asking for presents, and for Sherlock to return to visit INSTEAD of summoning demons now. NICE!


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John heads back to Hogwarts, but things just aren't the same with Sherlock gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my betas, otp221b, and the-navel-treatment, for giving this a good once over! It always helps me keep writing to know at least two people are going to read my next chapter!

***

“Oi, don’t eat ALL the biscuits, ya pillock!” Dom grabbed the bag from the lap of his brother sat beside him. “Mum didn’t make them just for you.”

“That’s true, she didn’t want me to grow as fat as your lazy arse.” Tom stuck out his tongue.

Dom made a rude noise, and dug into the paper sack for a large shortbread finger. He took a bite, and held the bag open to Owen across the train compartment.

“That’s all right, then.” Owen grinned, selecting one for himself. “I’m a keeper. Need to bulk up.”

“John?” Dom rattled the bag his way.

“No thanks, mate.” John shook his head as the biscuits moved on to Teddy. He glanced out the window at the scenery speeding past the train. It had been dead hard getting on the Hogwarts Express knowing it was taking him farther away from Sherlock instead of closer. Still, it had been good to see all the lads again. Teddy, Owen, and the twins were bursting with news of their holidays. 

“Nana took me on a tour of flowering gardens.” Teddy sighed extravagantly. “An absolute bore, but there was a family party for my godfather’s birthday and that was all right. They had moving statues. One pinched my Nana’s bum when she wasn’t looking. Sodding hilarious, that!”

The twins had traveled to see the Quidditch World Cup in Ireland and had plenty of tales of the game, and the dancing veelas at halftime to share. Owen, it seemed, had got himself a girlfriend over the summer.

“Her name’s Eileen,” Owen said, proudly showing around the small snapshot he had. “We met at the Big Cheese festival. We’re trying out a long-distance relationship.”

“Wot’s wrong wi ‘it?” Dom asked, chewing his biscuit as he gave the still photograph a vigorous shake.

“The photo’s broken or summat,” Tom added peering over his brother’s shoulder.

“You clots. It’s a Muggle photo, of course,” Teddy pronounced wisely.

“A Muggle.” John shot Owen a look. “How’s that going to work, mate?”

Owen coloured slightly. “I told her I was away at a special school and we can’t have mobiles, or get letters from anyone who’s not family. She’ll write to my parents' house, and I’ll send my owl to pick up her letters and drop mine off.”

“What’s a mobile, exactly?” Tom asked, and the two Muggle-raised Wizards, John and Owen, rolled their eyes, and waxed rhapsodic about mobile phones until they were close to Hogsmeade.

***

“All right ya sorry sods. Quidditch practice after dinner tomorrow.” Teddy glanced toward the dark dorm windows and the Quidditch pitch somewhere beyond. “Let’s see what everyone’s forgotten over the summer.”

“Teddy, have a heart. We’ve only just arrived. Let us unpack first.” Owen gestured to the many bags and trunks piled at their feet.

“Don’t you have to wait for the ickle newbies to try out? The team is down two chasers,” Tom pointed out.

“Right, no one else will even be out before next week.” Dom shrugged a shoulder.

“Exactly.” Teddy rubbed his hands together somewhat maniacally. “All the better reason to get a jump on the Slytherins. They won’t be expecting us to start so early.”

Owen groaned.

“Was I the only one who practiced over the summer?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Fine,” Owen said crossing his arms. “We’d best tell Victoire and Joanne.” He nodded in the direction of the girls’ dormitory.

“Erm, no worries. I was going to just meet up with Victoire for a moment in the common room before lights out.” Teddy’s cheeks had gone just the smallest bit pink as he turned to open his trunk. “I’ll let her know.”

John set to sorting his own things, pulling Fang from under a stack of t-shirts. Sherlock had agreed with John that Fang should have the year at Hogwarts he had missed. It was silly, but it eased the dull ache in John’s heart somewhat to tuck his boyfriend’s old stuffed animal next to his pillow.

Everyone fell right asleep at lights out, except John. He found himself tossing and turning amidst the snores and snuffles around him. Somehow he simply couldn't get comfortable without the warmth of a familiar weight sprawled against him. John’s mind kept wandering so many kilometers away, and he ached with wondering what Sherlock was doing right that moment. 

John wished he had a picture to at least form a mental image of where Sherlock was, but he’d never even been to Germany. All he could summon up was a hazy Swiss chalet sort of house with shutters, and Sherlock looking tall and pale, dark curls waving as he dashed about. Was he feeling as hollowed out as John? Was he in bed having trouble falling asleep too? John cursed the lack of email in the Wizarding world for the hundredth time. He flipped to his other side, and punched his pillow into a hopefully more sleep-inducing shape before laying his head on it. Tucking Fang under his chin, John sighed as he willed his body to relax.

 

***

John yawned his way through his first day of new classes only really waking up when he made it to Potions after lunch. Professor Lestrade nodded to John as he trailed in behind Teddy, Tom and Dom.

“All right, there, John?” The dark-haired man moved to greet him personally, clapping a hand to John’s shoulder. Up close, John could see the beginning threads of silver woven in next to his temples. Friendly crinkles framed his dark eyes as he smiled down at John.

All the giggly girls who had signed up for the class after seeing the new Potions master at the welcoming feast stopped to gawp at them, mouths half open.

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m doing fine.”

“No side effects from the poison hex?” Lestrade leaned in to ask in a low voice. “Weakness of limbs? Blurry vision? Gaps in memory?”

John’s mates had already found seats and they craned their necks, watching curiously as John and the new Potions Master had some personal coze by the classroom door.

“No, sir, I’m good. Thank you.” John ducked his head as every eye in the class seemed to bore in on them.

“Good man. Take your seat, son.” Lestrade sent him off with a pat on the back.

John slid onto the empty stool next to Teddy, his face flushed, ignoring the other boy’s questioning look. Somehow John had forgotten to tell his mates about the cursed goblet and the whole debacle at Sherlock’s grandmother’s over the summer. The story made him feel like a right tit. 

“What was all that about?” Teddy whispered nudging him in the ribs.

“Tell you later,” John managed to murmur before the new professor started class.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” The teacher called out, sending all the blinds in the room upward simultaneously with the flick of his wand. Golden afternoon light shone over them, brightening the dark stony potions dungeon considerably. “I am Professor Lestrade. As I’m sure everyone has noticed, I’ve taken over as Potions Master following Professor Leech’s departure this past summer. I’m sure we’ll all. . .”

“Excuse me, professor.” A hand shot up from the other side of the room. “I just wanted to ask . . .”

Heads swiveled to locate the speaker. John glanced over as well, and paled. The big thick-looking bruiser asking the question was sat next to none other than Alastaire Holmes who looked sulky as a wet cat. Bloody hell. He hadn’t even noticed them on his way into the room.

“What happened to Professor Leech exactly, sir?”

“Well, now, and your name would be?” Lestrade moved closer to peer down at the brute. Alastaire beside him tried to sink down in his chair as if he thought he might become conveniently invisible if he just slumped down far enough.

“Crusher, sir. Archibald Crusher,” the boy who could almost be a half-giant answered.

“I see. Well, Mr. Crusher. That would clearly be none of our business why a teacher decided to pursue other job opportunities. What would be our business today is discussing potions safety rules, and perhaps a little remedial reminders about . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a furry-seed-looking thing.

“Mr. Holmes.” He fixed Alastaire with a firm eye. “Perhaps you could tell the class what this is?”

“It’s a bezoar, sir,” Alastaire clipped out as his face flushed.

“Indeed it is, and can anyone tell me what purpose a bezoar might serve in our potions classroom?”

Tom and Dom’s hands shot up, but Professor Lestrade ignored them to keep Alastaire fixed in his gaze.

The boy cleared his throat. “It’s an antidote to all known poisons, sir,” he said quietly.

“Indeed. Let’s keep this in mind as we begin your last school year, shall we? Potions experts need to be well informed to make the best decisions possible. Now if you will all please open your books and turn to page 21 . . .” The room filled with the sounds of heavy books being dragged out and ruffled through.

Alaistare shot John a nasty look as Professor Lestrade turned to walk toward the chalkboard. John pretended to scratch his cheek with a raised middle finger. A few sniggers rippled over the class, but John sat bent innocently over his book when Lestrade turned back around. The professor merely raised an eyebrow, and waited for silence before continuing his lesson.

“Oi, John, what’s going on with that one?” Tom nudged him, jerking his chin toward Alastaire and his mammoth friend as the class stood to gather ingredients for their first project. Dom stood listening by his side.

“Ah, I’ll tell you lot later.” John sighed. “It's a long story.”

 

***

After Potions, John alone had an Intro Healer’s class on the other side of the castle. He bid his friends farewell, and near-sprinted to reach it on time. The lesson went well, and he liked the teacher, Professor Bones, but sadly, afterwards, John couldn’t seem to locate anyone. No one was back at the dorm room, and though he saw a number of familiar faces at dinner, none were his usual crew. John hurried through a quick plate of stew, confused, and headed out to the Quidditch pitch on his own for practice. He wondered what the hell had happened to everyone as he stepped into a darkened locker room. A burst of sparks rained down over his head, illuminating the bright smiles of the Quidditch team and his dorm mates as the lights snapped on.

“SURPRISE!” 

Tom darted forward to plop a silly paper hat on John’s head.

“Happy Birthday.” Dom grinned. “A bit late.”

“You lot!” John looked fondly around the small crowd. "I thought we really had a practice."

"Naw, even Teddy's not mental enough to schedule practice second day of school!" Owen called over. 

Tom and Dom produced some pasties, cinnamon buns, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice they’d begged from the kitchen elves. Everyone else shared around caches of Wizard sweets they'd brought from home.

John grinned as a bag of Bott’s every-flavoured beans came his way, and he grabbed a handful. “Thanks, everyone. Thanks so much.”

“Happy Birthday, Watson.” Teddy smiled, handing him a glass of juice. “You didn’t think we’d forget, did you?”

“Yeah, we figured you’d be missing . . . I mean . . . with himself gone . . . ” Owen shrugged, and trailed off. He neglected to pick up his line of thought when Teddy dug an elbow into his side.

John felt the smile sliding from his face, and quickly took a drink to cover it.

“All right, you lot, REAL practice starts next week, Monday, seven sharp.” Teddy called out to the room. “We’ll be trying out the newbies.”

“We need more chasers, mate. Good ones,” Joanne, a broad girl with short fair hair, and their only current chaser, declared before biting into a pastie.

“Don’t I know it.” Teddy said.

“How about you two gits?” John turned to Tom and Dom, the only non-members of the Quidditch team present. The two were currently spelling some of the purple gummy worms to crawl about the room in a sort of conga line.

“Nope.” Tom looked up briefly. “We’re too busy.”

“Got loads to do,” Dom agreed, waving his wand to make one of the worms do a backflip.

“It’s good news we have our unbeatable beaters still together!” Victoire moved to sling an arm around John’s neck, nearly upsetting his drink in the process.

“Whoa!” John said, just managing to save his juice. "Yes, to Gryffindor victory!" He smiled, raising his glass to clink against Vic's.

“Victory,” Teddy echoed, grinning foolishly at the two of them as he lifted his own glass in toast.

 

***

Breakfast soon became John’s favourite part of the day. Each morning, the Owl Post swooped in to rain scrolls and small packages down over the student body. As promised, John and Sherlock wrote every day even if it was just a quick check-in note. John quickly realized that neither Simpson nor Merlin were up to making the repeat journey on such a regular basis, and took to borrowing school birds. He’d mail a letter out, and Sherlock would send his reply right back with the Hogwarts owl.

Sherlock wrote rather brief notes to John’s rambling letters, but John treasured every scrap that Sherlock managed to send. He could almost hear him speaking the words penned in his familiar slanting handwriting.

“Dear John,  
I’ve found a room in a boarding house near work. Sorry, there are no shutters. It’s nothing special, just a two-story brick building, but I’m hardly ever there so its architecture hardly matters.  
I miss you.  
SH”

“Dear John,  
My fellow intern is an idiot. For the love of Merlin. Do they not teach the students in the States basic magic working? She nearly burned the potions workshop down this afternoon.  
I miss you.  
SH”

“Dear John,  
I’m hoping to get a weekend off as soon as I can. Things are busier here than I expected. I’ll let you know as soon as I can get away.  
I miss you terribly.  
SH”

There were other, more personal things John would have liked to discuss via their correspondence, but since mail sent by the school owls could conceivably be intercepted by a teacher, they sadly kept their notes at a very family-friendly rating.

Owen, on the other hand, seemed to be getting more personal missives from his Muggle girlfriend forwarded by his family. One morning, found him smirking over his porridge, reading from some pink stationery that gave off a veritable cloud of cloying, floral scent to hang over the table. Even John had to admit it didn’t mix particularly well with breakfast.

“Oi, Walker” Teddy called across the table. “All right then. If it’s so good, why don’t you share it with the whole class?”

“Not on your life!” Owen said, crushing the paper to his chest. “It’s personal, Teddy.”

“What stinks?” Tom scrunched up his nose as he slid in next to Teddy.

“Smells like a girl’s lav in here,” Dom added at his side, reaching for some toast.

“It’s Owen’s letter,” Teddy said sourly. “From his giiiirlfriend. Something icky sweet by the reek of it.”

“Aw, Teddy. Leave off.” Owen grumbled, folding the letter away to slide into a book. “I’m sorry Eileen got a bit nuts on the perfume. It’s not that bad.”

“What’s Sherlock got to say then?” Teddy turned his attention to John. Before John could open his mouth, Teddy had reached over and snatched up the small scroll next to his plate.

“Teddy . . ." John complained, but the boy had already unrolled the letter and started to read.

“Dear John, I ache for the taste of your lips, I dream of your sweet thighs wrapped . . .”

“HEY!” John growled, reaching to reclaim the scroll, but Teddy just held it farther away.

“Oh, he did not," Tom said, plucking the scroll deftly from Teddy’s fingers. He unrolled it to read aloud:

“Dear John,  
I was quite pleased to discover that tincture of baneberry WAS a good anti-coagulant to the herbal soothers I’ve been working on. Good luck on your charms exam. I know you’ll do above average.  
I miss you  
SH.”

“Pretty racy stuff,” Tom said wiggling his eyebrows.

“Stop, stop.” Dom draped one hand dramatically across his chest while the other waved his brother off. “Merlin’s beard, there are CHILDREN here.”

“All right, you lot, enough,” John said, collecting his scroll from Tom to slip it safely into his pocket.

“They’re just jealous,” Owen said to John, spooning up his breakfast.

“Yeh, guess we’d better get cracking to keep up with you two.” Dom smiled as he helped himself to scrambled egg.

“I dunno who’d have you, Teddy, you great lump,” John joked.

Teddy raised an eyebrow John's way, and wordlessly chomped a bite from his toast half.

“At least Victoire’s gotten lucky with someone local,” Tom said.

“Really? Where’s Victoire got off to? I never see her outside Quidditch anymore,” John said looking about the table, realizing now that he said it how true it was.

“Yeah, didn’t you know? She’s going out with Rhys Winters now,” Dom added.

“Noooo?” John said, his jaw dropping. Rhys was a good-enough looking bloke, but a SLYTHERIN, and a chaser on their Quidditch team to boot. It seemed like treason of the highest order on Victoire’s part.

“Truth,” Tom said, tipping his chin toward the Slytherin table across the room. Now that John focused, he could see a strawberry blond head there next to the tall raven-haired Rhys.

“Ah, maybe she can get us some good intel on what the Slytherin team has planned for strategy this year.” Owen shrugged.

“Or spill the beans on OUR plans to them.” Teddy grumbled, his eyes morphing a disturbing silver color as he glared across the room.

“Oh, come on, Teddy,” John said. “Victoire would never betray us like that.”

“Wake up, Johnny, my boy, she’s already dating the enemy. What more betrayal do we need?” Teddy said lowering eyebrows gone quite bushy.

“Teddy, stop being mental, and eat your breakfast,” Tom said shoving him. “I think your blood sugar is dipping low.”

Teddy snapped back to normal in a flash. "Sorry," he mumbled, and sheepishly shoveled up a forkful of beans.

***

John promised himself he wouldn’t whinge about it to everyone, but he missed Sherlock with a constant ache, like some vital organ had been removed from inside him. Maybe he just had a Sherlock-sized hole in his heart, he thought ruefully. Everything at school seemed to remind him of the lanky genius who had burst into his life just a few short months ago, the Potions Dungeon, eating in the Great Hall, going to sleep in his big four-poster bed. _God,_ going to bed alone was so awful now. What had he been doing all those years at Hogwarts before Sherlock? John hardly knew, but he felt like he was crawling out of his skin waiting for Sherlock to come visit. His letters continued to be vague about when he might be able to get time off.

John threw his frustration with waiting into his classes, even getting ahead in his homework simply to fill up his time. Quidditch practice helped as a diversion of course, and his prefect duties took up some of his evenings. He put the fear of God into a few Ravenclaw first years roaming the halls after hours on one of his patrol nights, yelling at them all the way back to their damn door with its wretched eagle knocker across the front.

It didn’t help matters that John kept catching glimpses of a tall dark-haired boy with sharp cheekbones out of the corner of his eye all over school. He’d turn, half expecting to see Sherlock, only to find it was his cousin, Alastaire. His hair was more auburn than Sherlock’s, but John was annoyed that he’d never noticed how much they favoured each other before. It was maddening. Having an afternoon Potions class with the Slytherin guaranteed that John had to see him on a regular basis. 

John would have been happy to simply ignore the git, but Professor Lestrade had obviously picked John to be his star pupil. Alastaire took it as a personal insult, and doubled his efforts to best John at each class. If it weren’t for the fact that he needed excellent grades in Potions to get a spot in a hospital training program, John would have slacked off and just let sodding Alastaire have the limelight. The ponce was actually quite good at potions. If only he could be good at being human, they’d get on so much better John thought with a sigh.

“Elixir of Euphoria,” Professor Lestrade drawled, breaking into John’s wool gathering as he paced before the class. “This is one of the trickier potions, but should be well within the skill level of an advanced potions student.” Lestrade paused to glance out over the room. “Let’s see what you lot can do. You may work in pairs. You’ve got exactly one hour. Begin.”

There was a flurry of textbook smacking onto table tops, and a rush to the supplies cabinet by the swifter students. John sighed and took his time opening his book. He knew hurrying didn’t necessarily help when making potions. Slow and steady was always better.

“Page 157,” Teddy mumbled beside him. “We need shrivelfig, wormwood, porcupine quills, and sopophorous beans.” He read, running his finger down the ingredients list. “Go get the stuff, and I’ll start the water boiling.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” John said glancing back at the twins as he slid off his stool. Tom and Dom were frantically emptying their bags out onto their worktop, obviously hoping to use some of their own supplies for the challenge.

John made his way to the cabinet at the back of the room, and patiently waited his turn behind the crowd. A couple of Gryffindor girls seemed to be picking only the prettiest beans out of the bin. “Mandy, Joanne, please! We don’t have all day.” He groaned.

“Sorry, John.” Joanne smiled. They gathered their things and moved out of the way. John scooped up a small handful of the sopophorous beans quickly. He shifted to reach around a Slytherin girl for porcupine quills when someone knocked into him, a heavy foot landing squarely on his toe.

“OW!” John cried, dropping his handful.

“Sorry,” Alastaire Holmes sneered.

“Look what you did!”

“Oh, I’m just so clumsy today. Pardon!” Alastaire pulled an exaggerated moue as he stepped squarely on John’s beans, grinding them into the floor as he reached for what he needed.

“You total arse.” John clenched his hands at his side.

“Better than a half arse.” The berk grinned as he moved away with his spoils.

John glanced back at Professor Lestrade, but he had missed the whole exchange, bending over to inspect the work of a student across the room. When John made it back to the bean bin, there were only a few withered ones left in the bottom. John sighed and scooped up the leavings, hurrying back to Teddy’s gently steaming cauldron.

“Brilliant . . . oh hang on, John. Is that the best you could do with the beans?”

“That’s all that was left, TEDDY. If you want it done better, you go get the supplies next time.”

“Fine.” Teddy huffed. His hair was a lovely green that morning, and he ran his hand back through it pushing it every which way like an overgrown lawn. “This will have to do.”

John shot him a look as he flipped to the right place in his own textbook to read the instructions for himself.

“So, what advice did Sherlock have?” Teddy whispered as John scanned the page. Sherlock had left him his old Advanced Potions book, and John tried his best to decipher the many scribbled notes jotted in the margins. His observations generally improved every potion in the book significantly.

“Stir more frequently than required, and cut ingredients into smaller pieces.” John read dutifully.

“Right-o.” Teddy grinned.

They soon busied themselves with John chopping and Teddy stirring as the whole room filled with a quiet bustle. A small cry across the room broke the hush followed by the distinct blurp of a cauldron’s contents overflowing and hissing into the fire below. John barely spared a glance as Professor Lestrade darted over to provide the unlucky student with assistance.

“What else did Sherlock say? Anything more?” Teddy asked, wiping the hand not currently vigorously stirring the pot across his forehead.

John peered at his page. “Huh, Sherlock says to add a pinch of peppermint leaves for best results.”

“Are you sure?” Teddy raised an eyebrow, looking back at his own textbook. “There’s no mention in the instructions.”

“When has Sherlock ever steered us wrong?”

“All right, go for it.” Teddy nodded. “Don’t let the Slytherins see you though.”

John nodded, and made his way quickly to the supply cabinet. When he saw Alastaire watching him through slitted eyes, John made a great show of picking out several stalks of fluxxweed. He turned his body slightly to block the view of his other hand, and grabbed a few peppermint leaves before stepping away.

John stopped by the twins' station. Their potion had gone a disturbing grey colour, and it moved only reluctantly as Tom tried to give it a vigorous stir. Dom worriedly added more shrivelfig juice to it.

“Hey,” John said quietly slipping them a leaf. “Sherlock says to add some peppermint.”

“Thanks mate.” Dom flashed him a quick smile.

Thankfully, the concoction in Teddy’s cauldron looked a good deal better, sporting a lovely shade of orange. When John dropped in the quickly-shredded peppermint leaves, it lightened even further to an almost lemon yellow.

“Is that good?” Teddy asked.

John glanced back at the tangle of notes left by Sherlock across his page. “Yup, Sherlock says yellow is best.”

“Brilliant.” Teddy beamed.

John hid his grin when he glanced over and saw Alastaire back at the supplies, surreptitiously picking out some fluxxweed of his own.

Before John knew it, Professor Lestrade rapped smartly on his desk and time was over. “All right, that’s it, people. All wands and spoons down, please.”

Most of the class hadn’t fared much better than Tom and Dom. John was pleased to note that Alastaire had one of the worst-looking concoctions in the room though.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Crusher. I fear you gentlemen have left the path here,” Professor Lestrade said, frowning over the ominously bubbling dark glop in their cauldron. With a wave of his wand, he sent the pot to empty itself out in the sink. “Five points from Slytherin for completely neglecting to follow the instructions.” Alastaire shot John a look that would have murdered him on the spot if glares were lethal. John flashed him a broad grin in reply.

Only three potions were deemed good enough to bring up front for testing. Professor Lestrade had the class gather round as he examined each. John and Teddy’s bright yellow potion looked the best of the bunch, but the other two orangish brews steamed nicely, each smelling bright and clean.

“Well, now we need some test subjects, don’t we?” Lestrade rubbed his palms together, looking about. “Let’s have one of each the lucky pairs who made these potions try them out. Don’t worry, most find the effects of Euphoria Elixir to be quite pleasant.”

Teddy shook his head slightly so John moved to stand by their potion. Joanne joined her cauldron with a pleased smile, and a Slytherin, Rhys Winters stepped up to claim the third.

“Excellent,” Lestrade said passing out a small wooden spoon to each of them. John scooped up a spoonful of the brew, watching as the others did the same. By some unspoken agreement, they all swallowed at the same time. John was pleased to note the potion had a sweet taste as it went down, and the addition of the mint was quite a bonus.

John tensed, waiting for the effects of the potion to take effect. Making a fool of himself in front of everyone was just NOT on, but oooh, wasn't the light streaming in through the window simply gorgeous? Some time later, Professor Lestrade’s handsome face swam into view. He urged John to take a sip from a cup, and John grinned as he accepted it. It was simply GRAND of the professor to share his drink with him. John took a swallow, and felt the bright, bouncy world around him dimming, sliding back down into its usual place. He found his right arm had gone to sleep under the large Slytherin boy, Rhy, leaning against it. The two of them seemed to have wedged themselves somewhat uncomfortably onto a window sill together. Rhy grinned widely as he drank from a cup of his own. John watched as his merry expression melted to something like horror. The two of them couldn’t scramble away from each other fast enough. 

Joanne, still obviously under the influence of her potion, danced along a work top, singing a rousing chorus of “Love Me With Your Big Strong Wand.” Students tried to coax her down to accept the cup that Professor Lestrade held out, but she kept evading the helping hands to spin another circle. 

John hurried over to his friends. “What happened? Did I . . . what did I . . .”

“Relax,” Tom said. “You and Rhys only kissed once.”

“Yeah, it was really brief,” Dom added, holding up placating hands. “No tongue.”

“Oh, no.” John groaned.

“Then you just started talking about how great it was to kiss Sherlock,” Tom said, “and what a lovely arse he has. Soft as butter apparently.”

“No his arse was like bread dough, I think it was,” Dom said. “It was his lips that were smooth as butter.”

John groaned louder, and dropped his face into his palm.

“Right, right.” Tom chuckled “and then Rhys got going about how great Victoire is. He started singing an ode to her lovely set of . . .”

“Yeah, enough already,” Teddy cut in, flushing. “That was ridiculous. How dare they let this happen in a classroom setting! It’s criminal.”

“Oh, lighten up, granddad, it was funny,” Tom joked.

“Yeah, really funny." John quirked up his mouth. "Now I have to tell Sherlock I was cheating on him with a Slytherin.”

A loud shriek caught their attention, and they turned, watching Joanne, finally caught, being helped down off the tables. She giggled uproariously, reaching out to tweak any nose close enough at hand. Once Professor Lestrade finally convinced her to drink a cup of antidote, she sobered quickly enough, looking about the room to blush nearly crimson.

“Bloody Slytherins,” Teddy mumbled.

“Cheer up, John.” Dom slung an arm around his neck. “It might make Sherlock come visit faster when he hears.”

“Top marks go to John and Ted for their excellent potion, and five points to Gryffindor.” Professor Lestrade called out. “Their brew produced the least amount of nose tweaking and singing while still providing an excellent bout of euphoria. Good work gentlemen! Everyone please remember to wash all your equipment thoroughly before you leave today.”

John could hear Alastaire grinding his teeth across the room.

 

***

 

Life at Hogwarts settled into a predictable schedule. The first true buzz of excitement came after notices appeared around school announcing the first weekend trip to Hogsmeade. As a prefect, John busied himself making sure all the Gryffindors had their permission slips in to attend. When a small boy named Conan realized he’d lost his, he nearly went spare, fisting his hands in his hair in a panic.

“I can’t miss the first weekend in town, I can’t. I’ve been looking forward to this all summer!”

“Conan, calm down, son. I’ll talk to Pinworthy. We’ll get it sorted!” John promised, patting the boy’s thin shoulder.

John made the trip straightaway to the office of the head Gryffindor, Professor Pinworthy. He was confident she’d still be up even though it was close to bedtime.

Sure enough, a quick knock on her door had her mellifluous tones trilling “Come in.”

John stepped inside to find Professor Pinworthy enjoying a cup of tea and a book by the fire.

“Ah, Mr. Watson. What can I do for you this evening?” She was a festive sight, wearing purple glasses, a flowered scarf around her greying hair, and an off-hours robe that changed colour every few minutes cycling through all the shades of the rainbow.

When John explained the problem, the professor assured him that an express note could be send to the boy's parents right away.

“John, sit for a moment if you wouldn’t mind.” She gestured to an armchair across the room, and it moved closer drawing up behind John’s knees.

“Of course, ma’am.” John didn’t so much sit as allow the overstuffed seat to envelope him. One of the cushions purred as he settled back.

“Tea?” With another gesture, a tea tray appeared to hover before him.

“Erm, okay,” John said as a china teapot rose to pour him a cup of steaming tea, sugar lumps jumping up to join the stream of hot liquid. The full cup settled onto a saucer before floating into his hands. 

“John, you are doing an excellent job with your prefect duties, and I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“We’re really going to miss you next year. How are things going, dear? Everything running ship shape?”

“Fine, yeah, really good.” John nodded, blowing across his tea before taking a sip.

“I know you’re missing a certain Ravenclaw, though truthfully you’re probably getting more sleep these days.” She clucked her tongue, peering at him over the tops of her glasses.

John almost choked on his mouthful of tea.

“I’ve never seen a more clever bed sharing than you two got up to. Those illusions spells Sherlock put up around your room were top notch.” Professor Pinworthy smiled before taking a drink from her cup. “It’s no wonder he got an internship with Herr Moser. He'll go far, that one.”

“Professor I am so sorry. If I need to turn in my prefect badge . . .” John squeaked out.

“John, no, of course not.” Pinworthy cut him off with a wave. “As I said before, you’re doing an excellent job as prefect. Keep up the good work.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will.” John swallowed somewhat audibly.

“Jaffa cake?” Professor Pinworthy asked, directing a plate of cakes his way.

“All right.” John felt slightly dizzy as he selected one off the top.

Professor Pinworthy smiled as the plate swung her way. “Ah, my dear boy. Strange as it might sound, we were all young once,” she said choosing her own cake. She winked as she took a small bite, wiggling her fingers to shoo the plate of cakes back to a table.

“Yes ma’am. Thank you, ma’am,” John mumbled, flustered. He took a slightly too-large bite of his Jaffa cake, and it squeaked around his back teeth.

 

***

 

“I fancy a trip to Hogsmeade,” Owen said, glancing at the outing notice hung in the Gryffindor common room. “I haven’t had a butterbeer in ages.”

“We’ve got to hit Dogweed and Deathcap,” Tom said. “I need more potions supplies.”

“I just fancy looking at something that isn’t the inside of the school or the Quidditch field,” John agreed.

Saturday of the Hogsmeade trip started out pouring rain, but thankfully tapered off to just a mist by breakfast time. John was disappointed as the Owl Post arrived without a note from Sherlock that morning. It was inevitable that their daily letter writing would slack off though. Even John couldn’t keep up with that schedule as classwork piled up, and there were only so many ways to say “I went to classes and I miss you more than air.”

The students going into the village pulled on warm outer cloaks and lined up at the door to be ticked off the lists. John had to fulfill prefect duties checking those leaving, but he waved on Teddy, Owen, Tom, and Dom promising them he’d join them at the Three Broomsticks as soon as he was done.

“All right, John?”

John looked up to see Maria Morstan and her new Hufflepuff boyfriend, Seamus Braden, waiting to pass.

“Yeah, good, and you?”

“Good, I’m really good.” Maria smiled, wrapping an arm around Seamus’ bulging forearm, to gaze besottedly at him. Had she ever looked at John like that when they were going out? John found he couldn’t really remember. Things between them had slipped into nothing but sniping and sidestepping once Sherlock had entered his life.

“Morning.” Seamus nodded pleasantly at John.

John had to lean back and look up to return the greeting. He checked the list, and they were both approved for the outing. John smiled and waved them through. He watched as they walked down the steps and off to the village, hand in hand, with the rest of the students headed that way. Maria was so much smaller than Seamus, but John felt that they looked good together, easy in a way that perhaps he and Maria had never been. Thankfully the queue waiting to leave cleared up fairly quickly, and John was free to make his own way to Hogsmeade. It seemed like a good sign that the clouds had cleared enough for a feeble bit of sun to peek out on his walk over to the village. Still it was chilly, and John tied his red and gold scarf a bit tighter.

The Three Broomsticks was warm, and cheerfully crowded when John pushed inside, but he found his mates easily enough at a table near the back. They waved him over to the chair they’d saved for him. The pub broke out into loud cheers as John took his seat, and he swiveled to see Puddlemere United had just scored a goal over the Ballycastle Bats on the large viewscreen over the bar. John smiled to himself. Change came slowly to the Wizarding world, but the chance to broadcast Quidditch games across the UK had inspired the Ministry of Magic to fund the magic to create a sort of telly system.

“Hey, John.” Teddy smiled, as the others chimed in a greeting as well.

“Wow, Puddlemere’s doing well,” John said, glancing toward the game as the goal tally flashed over the screen.

“Shame about Wimbourne.” Owen grinned before taking a swallow from his mug.

“Aw, shut it Owen, they’ll be back on top next year,” Dom said, reining in his disappointment that the twin’s favourite team, the Wimbourne Wasps, had already lost two games that season.

“Only if they get rid of sodding Marcus Warton,” Tom growled, nearly sloshing his mug of butterbear as he leaned forward.“The bastard missed more goals than . . .”

“WARTON? It was sodding Lewis who couldn’t hit a bludger if it was standing still,” Dom countered.

“Hang on you lot. Try not to kill each other while I get my own.” John chuckled, rising to queue at the bar to order a drink. A large poster printed on bright green paper hanging next to the counter caught his eye. Changing headlines flashed along the top of the page, while an image of little wizard kept disappearing and reappearing all around the edges. 

“ARE YOU 17 YEARS OLD OR OLDER?” It asked. “READY TO APPARATE ON YOUR OWN?”, "GET CERTIFIED NOW!"

The smaller text said that an apparition test would be held in Hogsmeade the first weekend of October for all Witches and Wizards eligible to qualify, and gave the time and place. John felt a jump of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Finally! Anything that helped him with traveling was a step toward seeing Sherlock more often.

John ordered his butterbeer, slipped coins onto the bartop, and collected his drink to return to the table. 

“Hey did you see the poster?” John asked his friends as he slid into his chair, nodding back toward the bar. “Apparating test coming up.”

“Yeh, well, Tom and I aren’t seventeen until November,” Dom said, “and Teddy’s birthday is April.”

“Looks like you and Owen are the only ones old enough,” Teddy said, waving a hand their way.

“Yeah, not sure I’m up for it just yet.” Owen grimaced. “Read a story about a kid who splinched right in half on his first try. Think I’ll wait till the spring.”

“Oh, where did you read that?” Teddy asked. “The Quibbler? Nothing in that rag is real.”

John glanced around the room as he took a drink of creamy butterbeer, only half listening to Owen spluttering his reply. He couldn’t help remembering sitting in the pub with Sherlock, talking so long the sun went down outside. John sighed. It seemed like forever since he’d seen Sherlock in person, pulled him close, breathed in the scent of that herbally stuff he put in his mad curls. He could almost smell it if he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“John. Hello, anyone home?.” Teddy snapped fingers by his ear.

“Oh, sorry. Just thinking.” John refocused on the group around the table.

“Dreaming about snogging Sherlock, most likely.” Tom grinned.

“Or something else.” Dom snickered.

“Oi, shut it you lot.” John felt himself colouring. “Hey, who thinks the Chudley Canons are going to pull through this year?”

Heartfelt groans echoed around the table.

***

More of the flashing posters showed up around school the following day, and John lost no time in writing a letter to Sherlock about the upcoming apparition test.

“I’m glad we practiced at the beach.” He penned. “I really feel like I’ve got a chance to pass. Please say you’re coming to visit soon. Tell those slave drivers your grandmother is sick and you need to visit her. Tell them anything. I miss you – John.”

John was pleased when a reply appeared two days later at breakfast. A tawny Hogwarts owl dropped a scroll into his lap just missing his plate of bangers and beans. John hurried to untie the cord that bound it. He spread the thick paper out, the breath catching in his throat as he read the short message.

“John,  
I can get the first weekend of October off. I’ll be in Hogsmeade to see your apparition test. I’ll send you the details as soon as I know.  
I miss you,  
SH.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no – a Bogart got loose in here. It’s taking the shape . . . of an empty mail box! Help defeat him by sending me a kudo or a comment!! ^,~


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting makes reunion all the sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to my betas, the-navel-treatment, and otp221b who continue to inspire me, and teach me how to use commas! XD

***

John shifted in his seat, turning his gaze to the clock on the Potion’s classroom wall. He’d felt antsy enough to crawl out of his skin all day, hardly eating a thing at breakfast or lunch. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he had a belly full of luminous woodsprites zinging around in there. John fiddled absently at the thin chain circling his wrist. He’d put his heartstone bracelet away for safekeeping at school, but knowing that Sherlock would be arriving in mere HOURS had him digging it out of his bedside drawer.

Professor Lestrade sat, leaning a hip against the edge of his desk, rambling on about the properties of licorice root, and John struggled to pay attention . . . good in sleep draughts, cold remedies . . . He glanced at the clock again. Sadly, the hands seemed to be frozen in place rather than moving around the dial in a usual march of time. John sighed.

“All right boys and girls.” John startled as Professor Lestrade clapped his palms together. “Let’s see how you do with brewing a basic cough potion. It may seem simple enough, but there’s a bit of a knack in getting it just right. Off you pop, then.”

John went through the motions of assembling his ingredients while his mind wandered off. Hopefully, Sherlock would be arriving some time that very evening. John already had permission to spend the whole weekend in the village. The rest of the school day was an aching desert, a vast wasteland of time to cross before he could reach his oasis of wrapping his arms around a certain skinny Wizard. John couldn’t wait to see Sherlock in the living, breathing flesh again. The idea, the very idea that he might be soon listening to that deep voice rolling out in person, that he might feel those dark curls under his fingers, or watch Sherlock’s lovely face moving as he explained something, God, he couldn’t wait . . .

John turned to pull his potions book closer, and almost knocked Teddy’s cauldron over with his elbow.

“Hey, watch it!” Teddy cried, reaching out to steady the pot. “Best get your head out of the clouds!”

“Oh, God, sorry, Teddy. It’s just, Sherlock coming to visit . . the apparition test.” John shrugged helplessly. “It’s a lot.”

“No worries, mate. You’ll do fine. I had a cousin, left a whole braid behind when she apparated for the test, and they still passed her.”

“Ah, good to know.” John chuckled weakly. 

A new thought occurred to John as he lined things up to cut on his chopping board. Sherlock had said he was almost positive he could come Friday night, but if things went pear shaped at work, he might not be able to get away until Saturday. He’d promised he’d be there first thing in the morning if that happened, but God, John really hoped it would be tonight. He just wasn’t sure he could wait a whole other . .

“John. Hey, JOHN.” Teddy’s voice broke in, insistent. “I think you’ve done enough, yeah?”

John focused on what his hands were doing, and realized he had chopped his root down to mush.

“Oh, blast it.” John sighed, sweeping the mess aside to grab a new root.

“Come on, eyes on the prize, Watson.” Teddy nudged him. “We don’t want the Slytherins getting top marks today do we?”

John flicked his gaze across the classroom to where Alastaire stood already briskly stirring his ingredients into his cauldron. As if he could feel the weight of John’s eyes, the git looked up to flash John an irritatingly smug expression. John pulled a silly face at him, and redoubled his efforts to get his potion brewing. Alastaire preened like a peacock later when Professor Lestrade proclaimed his mix the best in the class. John licked his lips, and looked at the clock again.

***

 

Dinner was John’s least favourite, eel pie, blood pudding, and mushy peas. He pushed it around on his plate without eating much, keeping half an ear on the conversations bubbling around him.

“You can’t believe that,” Tom said, leaning over the table to sneer at his brother. “Gretchen and the Gremlins are the best band EVER. They could beat Stargazers bum out the door and down the road.”

“All I’m saying Stargazers is top of the charts right now.” Dom shrugged eloquently. “Their concerts are sell-outs.”

“Oh, they are excellent live,” Teddy added forking up a bite of pie. “I saw them perform last year in Covington. They were brilliant.”

“Mate, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Little Mix in concert. The blonde one with the legs . . .” Owen trailed off wistfully.

“WHO?” Teddy and the twins rounded on him in unison.

John laughed. “Yeah, the blonde one is quite . . .”

He was interrupted by a silvery blur racing up the middle of the great hall. Heads turned as the shape leapt up to land before John, coalescing into an otter patronus. The ghostly creature opened its mouth, and Sherlock’s gorgeous voice poured out. “John, I’m at the front gate.”

John found himself on his feet before he even realized he’d moved. “Yeah, I’m off,” he said to no one in particular.

“Hey, good luck on the apparition test!” Teddy said. 

“Knock ‘em dead, mate.” Owen grinned.

“Yeah, and good luck with Sherlock,” Tom added.

“He doesn’t need any luck with that,” Dom said. “Hopefully the inn will have thick walls . . .”

“Okay. Thanks.” John waved halfheartedly as he walked toward the door, making his way quickly around the few students blocking the aisle. “Scuse me, 'scuse me.”

John stopped briefly in the corridor to wave his wand toward the staircase leading to the Gryffindor dorms. _“Accio,_ bag.” It took a minute, but soon enough, John’s fully-packed rucksack soared down the hall and landed at his feet. Breathe, breathe, just breathe. John slung his bag over one shoulder, and hurried to push his way through the heavy front door, then into the dark and down the steps. It was chilly out and John thought briefly of returning for a cloak, but decided he couldn’t be arsed to go back now. He jogged a bit down the main path, hardly daring to believe it was really true. Sherlock actually here, finally . . . John cleared a turn, and spied a dark shape through the bars of the gate, waiting in a pool of light from the lamps. He upped his pace to a flat out run. The figure turned at the sound of his feet crunching on the gravel.

Oh God. Sherlock.

The heartstone on John’s arm glowed brightly as he reached up to wrench open the gate. It nearly leapt off his wrist tugging toward its mate. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ . . . a chant ran through John’s mind, as he hurled himself through the opening. Sherlock’s beautiful face hove into view above, splitting into a wide grin. John dropped his bag to the ground and dived in. He had an armful of Sherlock crushed against him in an instant as his mouth searched for Sherlock’s. Long hands curved around John’s back anchoring him as their mouths connected, kissing and kissing as if they could swallow each other whole. Red hot desire shot through John like a lance as a desperate sound escaped his throat. Sherlock answered with a low rumble of his own. After an age of kissing, they gradually tapered off to small pecks dropped across noses, and cheeks and chins. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck to just breathe as he pulled him as close as possible. He sighed all the way down to his toes. Sherlock shivered against him. God, he smelled incredible, so very Sherlock.

“John, oh John,” Sherlock mumbled into his hair.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, turning his head blindly, and they slid back to kissing hungrily again.

When they finally broke for air, John laughed for the sheer joy of it. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock agreed, keeping his hands firmly wrapped around John’s waist.

“I didn’t know you had an otter for a patronus.” John grinned.

“I’ve been working on it. Was it clear?”

“Gorgeous,” John breathed. “I don’t have one yet.”

“You’ll get it. I can’t wait to see.”

“We’re working on it in Defense Against the Dark Arts.” John shrugged a shoulder. It was amazing to simply be talking to Sherlock in person. He couldn’t stop grinning.

“I bet you’ll get a mouse.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled.

“A lion.”

“A grasshopper.”

“God, it’s good to see you, Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “You too, John.”

John wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they had mouths on each other again, kissing deeply, hands gripping. “Mmmm, you taste good,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s lips.

“MMmmm,” Sherlock agreed.

When a bit of sanity finally trickled back into John’s consciousness, he decided he wanted more than just snogging outside Hogwarts’ front gate for the evening’s agenda.

“Come on, where are you staying?” John asked, stepping back just enough to reclaim his rucksack.

“I booked a room at the Three Broomsticks,” Sherlock said somewhat hoarsely, his lips plump and pink. “It was the site of our first date. It seemed appropriate for a reunion,”

John laughed as he settled his bag over his shoulder. “You git,” he said fondly, reaching out to pat Sherlock’s hip. “I was still going out with Maria at the time. It wasn’t really a date.”

“Wasn’t it?” Sherlock asked. His voice had gone serious, and John felt a pang spike through him.

“Yeah. I guess it was.” John licked his lower lip thoughtfully. “Maria never stood a chance once I met you.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock smiled so fetchingly at that, John couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss him again. He managed to pull back from the kiss though before they got _completely_ lost in each other again.

“Okay. Inn, now.” John’s voice had gone quite husky as he hitched his bag higher on his shoulder.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Sherlock purred. He reached down to link their hands and tugged John on toward the village. “Tomorrow, you can apparate us both somewhere.”

“Oh, God, I hope I pass the test.” John had been so focused on Sherlock visiting that he’d completely neglected to worry about the apparition exam.

“You’re more than ready.” Sherlock gave John’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Hang on, Sherlock. Didn’t you bring any luggage?” John asked, looking about.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Sherlock turned his head and gave a whistle.

John squinted at the scrambling noise from some nearby bushes. A small shape burst through, darting their way. It was a suitcase, small square brown trunk with a set of tiny legs propelling it along.

“You got sentient luggage?” John laughed.

“Semi-sentient luggage.” Sherlock quirked a smile. “It was a gift from Mummy. She had it sent to my place in Germany.”

“Well, isn’t that something.” John marveled at how its little legs worked to keep up with them. “Those are terribly expensive, aren’t they?”

“I believe it’s her way of saying she’s sorry for this past summer.” Sherlock gave a shrug. “My family often finds it hard to say anything of substance to each other in person.”

“Yeah, it was hard, that dinner at your parents’.”

“Yes, but enough. I hate talking about my family.” Sherlock gave himself a shake. “I’d much rather talk about what you’re going to do to me once we get to our room.”

John licked his lips as a wealth of heated images flashed through his mind. “Oh, Holmes. I’m going to do _everything_ to you.” 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “John, why are we walking? Take my arm.” 

John wrapped his hands more fully around Sherlock, bracing himself for the odd twisting sensation as Sherlock apparated them onto the doorstep of the Three Brooms. The Inn was crowded, a number of families looked to be coming in to visit for the apparition exam, but thankfully they didn’t have to wait too long to check in. Madam Rosmerta, a handsome older woman who ran the Inn, winked broadly at them as they signed the registry. John watched with a small pang as Sherlock wrote Heidleberg as his place of residence.

Finally, after climbing stairs and finding their room, they stood in privacy together. John had a fleeting impression of a large four poster bed, a crackling fireplace, and some chairs filled with cushions before a tall genius was swooping in on him for another drugging round of kisses.

“Oh, John I’ve thought about you so much,” Sherlock mumbled against John’s mouth between kisses, “about this,” he sucked lightly on John’s bottom lip, “about touching you again.”

“Yeah, so touch me,” John growled, backing Sherlock toward the bed.

It was a mad flurry of tugging, and pulling, and tossing acres of cloaks and robes and annoying layers aside before they were both blessedly stripped and tumbling to the wide, soft bed. Sherlock rolled onto John, and they groaned as bare skin touched bare skin. John hands slid up and down Sherlock’s narrow back caressing over knobby bumps to cup his curved rear. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s lanky frame, squeezing him tight as if he could leave an imprint of his lover on his skin just from crushing him close. He mouthed at Sherlock’s neck, still marveling at having Sherlock actually here, actually in his arms. 

Sherlock mumbled something feverishly against John hair, _“Mein Liebster, mein Leben, mein Eigen.”_ His lips ghosted over John’s temple. _“Ich habe dich vermisst.”_

“English, Sherlock, speak English, love.” John laughed breathlessly. “I don’t know a word of German.”

“John, my love, my life, my own one.” Sherlock repeated, sliding down to mouth at John’s neck. “I missssssed you.”

He licked a stripe up John’s throat, and John groaned, feeling heat shoot to his middle as his very toes curled up at the pleasure. He could feel Sherlock’s arousal pressed against his thigh and he was mad to touch him there. Before John could work hands between them, a series of loud knocks at the door startled them both. They stared at the door as another knock rang out.

“No.” Sherlock said simply, returning to mouth across John’s chest. “If we . . . ignore them," he mumbled between kisses, "they’ll go . . . away.”

The knocking continued, a bit more insistently this time.

“Yeah, but maybe it’s important,” John said, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Go away.” Sherlock called over his shoulder. The knocks continued, growing in volume.

“Sherlock . . .” John licked his lips.

“Oh, Merlin’s saggy drawers, what IS IT?” Sherlock bellowed, rolling over to sit upright. John hated the rush of cold air that followed his absence.

No one answered, but the banging continued, even louder if possible.

Sherlock huffed, and snatched up something from the floor to cover his front as he moved to open the door a sliver. “YES?” he snarled, peering outside. Sherlock scanned both ways before dropping his gaze downward. He sighed loudly.

“Who is it?” John asked, tugging the quilt demurely over his lap. He couldn’t help running his eyes over Sherlock’s lithe shape, latching onto his exquisite arse. John licked his lips.

Sherlock opened the door wider by way of explanation, and the brown suitcase entered somehow conveying a tone of extreme pique with its entire being as it stomped in.

John burst out a laugh. Sherlock’s giggles joined in as he locked the door, and returned to the bed. 

“I forgot the luggage.” Sherlock smiled shyly sitting on the edge.

“Silly thing,” John said. “Still, that’s dead useful.”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock hummed, dropping his covering to prowl over the bed, settling himself to straddle John’s legs. “Where were we?”

“Oh, right about here, I think.” John smiled and pulled Sherlock back in for another kiss. He wound one hand through Sherlock’s hair while the other roamed, petting down his flank. “Hey love, budge over.” John urged Sherlock to his side as he pulled the covers over both of them. “There, that’s better.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, slotting himself closer. 

“Beautiful.” John smiled, bringing one of Sherlock’s elegant hands to his mouth to lay kisses over his palm and down his wrist. He kissed around the matching heart stone bracelet caught around Sherlock’s angular wrist, dropping a peck right on the glowing gem. The chain looked a bit speckled as if Sherlock had dropped something corrosive on it, and John snorted.

“Oh, you got the chain grotty.”

“I wear mine all the time.” Sherlock countered. He cracked an eye open that was too piercing by half. “You haven’t been wearing yours.”

“Quidditch.” John said by way of explanation, working his way back to Sherlock’s long, lovely fingers. He flicked a tongue over the pad of Sherlock’s index finger enjoying the way Sherlock’s breath shuddered, then sucked it down. Sherlock groaned deeply, his eyes fluttering shut as John swirled his tongue around the digit. John took the next one into his mouth, working his way carefully down the line. John had reduced Sherlock to a squirming mess by the time he left off biting lightly at his palm to cuddle him closer.

“Oh. You feel good.” John crooned, smeared kisses under Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock made a gorgeous, contented noise in the back of his throat. He tipped his head back to better offer himself, and John moved in happily. He nipped gently at the soft skin under Sherlock’s ear as he grabbed a handful of lush arse to haul Sherlock even closer. John could feel the lovely effect he was having on Sherlock when a chill of something "not right" lifted the hairs up the back of his neck. He stilled, twisting around, craning his head to scan the room. The luggage sat right next to the bed. John could swear it was staring at him. Avidly.

“Oh God,” John groaned.

“Wait what? What’s wrong?” Sherlock struggled up onto one elbow, clearly working through a fog to think.

“It’s this pervy luggage, it’s WATCHING us.”

“John.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “It’s just luggage.”

“Well, it’s giving me the willies.”

“Fine.” Sherlock leaned over John to better address the case. “Go wait in the loo,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door.

The luggage seemed to consider this. It looked miffed at being ordered to leave, though John would have been hard pressed to explain how a small wooden trunk could actually look upset. Still it moved obligingly enough to obey Sherlock’s request. They watched as it trundled off to settle in the en suite.

“Do you think it’s listening?” John whispered.

“John, for goodness sake,” Sherlock huffed, clearly exasperated, “ and close the door.” He added in a loud voice.

The door smacked shut as the suitcase threw itself against it.

“Better?” Sherlock asked, his mouth tipping up.

“Getting there.” John sighed, pulling Sherlock back into his arms.

It was some time later, they lay sated for the moment, side by side, lazily chatting of this and that, enjoying the sheer novelty of having each other close enough to touch as the mood struck them. John enjoyed trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm, feeling the slight tug of their heart stone as they passed. Lovely colors glowed within the center of the stones each time they drew near.

“Do you know what I missed the most about you, John?”

“No, what?” John looked up with a smile.

“This part, right here.” Sherlock moved down to mouth at the soft skin just below John’ s navel, working his way along the dusting of light hair there.

John giggled as soft lips nuzzled over him. “Just that? My gut? Nothing else?”

Sherlock looked up, hurt in his pale blue eyes. “Of course not, John. I need to have the rest of you to bring this along.” His arms curled around John as he settled his cheek on John’s belly with a sigh. “I haven’t slept well without you.” 

John moved to thread his fingers softly through Sherlock’s long, dark curls. He’d probably need a haircut soon. “No, me either, love.” He let his hand scratch lightly over Sherlock’s scalp before lowering it to smooth over his shoulders. Sherlock nearly purred in response.

“You don’t look like you’ve been eating well, sweet. Look at you, you’re nearly skin and bones. Not that I don’t love those bones.” John hastened to add lest Sherlock get any idea that he wasn’t the most gorgeous thing on the planet. “Isn’t the food any good in Germany?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to lose weight.” Sherlock shifted, bringing himself back level with John’s face. “It’s just that things get so busy at the potions’ workshop. There’s always so much to do, and such wonderful things to learn.” He propped his head up over a bent arm, and shrugged a shoulder. “Just the other day, Herr Moser showed me a new way to brew Adder’s Fork . . .” John smiled and nodded as Sherlock pontificated on the various applications of the plant.

“That does sound interesting.” John smiled softly. “Still, I don’t want you missing meals because of work.” John reached out to push back a curl that had flopped over Sherlock’s forehead. “Promise me you’ll eat at least twice a day. Real meals, not just some nibble.” 

“Yes, all right, John. I promise.” Sherlock looked sheepish as he ducked his chin.

At that, John’s stomach gave a loud rumble. John laughed. “Here’s me talking. I really didn’t eat much today at all. I was all in knots waiting for you.”

“Me too.” Sherlock’s blue-green eyes nearly glowed as he fixed John in his gaze. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“Come on.” John moved in to drop a kiss to his nose.” Let’s get dressed and go downstairs and see what they have on for supper, and then we can order room service for a breakfast nosh in bed.

“I am a little peckish,” Sherlock admitted.

“Good. We need to fatten you up, love. There’s hardly enough of you to hang on to as it is.” John ran a hand over Sherlock’s painfully sharp hip bone.

After a filling meal by the fire downstairs, John’s eyes drinking in the sight of Sherlock the entire time, they returned to their room to fall into the bed. By all rights, they should have been exhausted, but they only had to roll together before a second wave of fire scorched through them and they were lost in heated kisses again. John hoped the walls really were thick enough to muffle their cries. Sherlock had John making an embarrassing amount of noise before he rolled over and returned the favour.

“John. JOOOOOHN.” Sherlock’s head thrashed against the pillow.

“Who’s my good kitty?” John kissed at Sherlock’s neck as his hands did naughty things below. “You’re my good kitty, you are. Come for me, love.”

John marveled at the look on Sherlock’s face as he cried out, arched his back, and fell apart under John’s insistent fingers. _I did that_ he thought smugly as he splayed a hand over Sherlock’s side, waiting for him to reassemble. _I did that._

When everyone was breathing normally once more, they made the luggage hie off to the cupboard for the night, washed up, and tumbled back in bed, finally too tired for anything other than sleep.

“Sh’lock. Love you,” John mumbled against dark curls.

“John.” Sherlock let out a gusty sigh against him as they both drifted off.

 

***

 

“Number fourteen, please. Number fourteen.” A Wizard in a grey robe looked up from his clipboard to peer into the waiting group.

John looked down at the slip of paper in his hand that read twenty-one and sighed, shifting his weight on his seat. He felt all pins and needles for his apparition test to be over, and the wait was only making it worse.

“Relax, you’ll be fine.” Sherlock bumped his shoulder.

“I hope so.” John blew out a breath, and looked up at the tent walls rippling softly around them from the breeze outside.

John had to laugh when he first spied it in the field next to Hogsmeade proper. The large pink tent set up for the apparation testing squatted like an oversized coconut sweet left to melt in the sun. All mirth had fled once they had entered to sign up for his testing though. The space was even bigger on the inside than out, and buzzing with activity. John swallowed nervously and looked around thinking a small football pitch and bleachers could easily have been tucked inside.

Officials bustled about directing the young Witches and Wizards and their families to take seats set to the side while the testing went on in the center. John spotted a number of Hogwarts students throughout the mix, and waved at a few he knew.

A girl with a blue tie, a Ravenclaw prefect named Rebecca, peeled away from a group to greet Sherlock. John smiled faintly as the two of them talked about her upcoming herbology project for a moment. It seems she was building on something Sherlock had done the year before. John glanced about, and winced at finding Rhys from potions class walking away from the testing field. He seemed to have passed as the Wizard examiner shook his hand warmly. John had written Sherlock about the whole Rhys thing of course, they’d laughed about it, but John didn’t fancy running into him with Sherlock visiting. He slid lower his chair, covering his face with his hand as he mucked about with his fringe until Rhys had passed. Rebecca laughed at something Sherlock said, then made her farewells.

John looked up, flashing a quick smile. “Yeah, bye, Rebecca.”

“Well that was interesting,” Sherlock mused, tapping a finger to his lip. “A glowing rustlewood vine.”

“A glowing rustlewood vine. Fancy that,” John agreed absently, his eyes sliding back to the testing field.

He watched as a plump Hufflepuff girl whose name he didn’t know tried to apparate. She screwed up her face, and turned, moving a few metres along the filed easily enough. Unfortunately the majority of her clothing stayed behind her. She squeaked, standing in nothing but some dotted yellow pants as her hands flew up to cover her ample chest. An older woman nearby used her wand to whisk her things back to her as surprised laughter broke out around them. John leaned forward, craning for a better view when he felt Sherlock, facing the other direction, tense up beside him. 

“Mycroft, what the blazes are you doing here?”

John swung his gaze to see that the elder Holmes brother did indeed stand before them in the flesh, though not as much flesh as the young woman hastily pulling a robe back over her head on the field.

“Sherlock. John. How lovely to see you both. I trust that you two are enjoying your reunion.” His eyes dropped to a small purpling mark at the base of Sherlock’s throat, before sweeping over John. John blushed.

“I could say the same of you,” Sherlock countered coolly.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent.

John made a confused noise, but Sherlock ignored him to continue eyeing his brother. “But I repeat, why are you here?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and tapped at the ministry seal hanging from a crimson ribbon around his neck. “Ministry appartion testing today,” he said simply, “I am assisting.”

“This isn’t your division,” Sherlock snapped.

“Nonetheless, I am qualified to judge the exam, and they welcome volunteers.” Mycroft shrugged slightly as he glanced around at the proceedings. The Witch with the yellow knickers had left the field sniffling, her mother’s arm around her shoulders as they headed toward the exit. John watched them pass, poor thing.

“Not to worry, John.” Mycroft flashed him a tight smile that was most likely meant to comforting. “I’m sure you’ll do much better.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock squinted up at his brother. “You aren’t going to be judging John are you?”

“No, brother mine. I’m actually here in a more administrative capacity today. Oversight, if you will.”

Sherlock humphed in reply.

“I’d wish you good luck.” Mycroft turned to address John,“but it’s skill you’ll need more today. From what I saw of your abilities last summer though, you’ll have no problems passing. Just make sure you lift your back foot when you turn.”

“Thanks,” John said, rubbing his damp hands down his thighs. “I appreciate that.”

“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I do have some duties to be attending.” Mycroft nodded a farewell. 

“Yes, yes, Mycroft. Don’t let us keep you.” Sherlock waved him off.

Mycroft turned to go, but caught himself at the last minute. “Oh, and Sherlock. Do send Mummy a short note even if it’s only to let her know you haven’t perished in some horrid accident.”

When Sherlock merely crossed his arms and snorted, Mycroft widened his eyes slightly to look down at his brother. “She worries,” he added in a somewhat lower tone.

“Fine.” Sherlock huffed. With a final nod, Mycroft turned in a whirl of pin-striped robe and was off. 

John reached over to give Sherlock’s knee a squeeze.

“Your back foot was fine,” Sherlock said grumpily.

“Yeah, well I’ll take any good advice. I just don’t want to leave any bits or bobs behind when I apparate,” John said, licking his lips.

“No, indeed. I happen to like your bits.” Sherlock flashed him a naughty smile as moved a hand to slide up John’s thigh.

“Oi, stop that, you. People here.” John flicked his eyes nervously around them. 

“Do you know what I’d like to do your bits later?” Sherlock’s voice had dropped.

John shook his head, entranced, watching Sherlock’s mouth as it moved closer. When it bumped against his ear, John closed his eyes. “Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbled, and proceeded to pour honeyed whispers into his ear about all the things they could be getting up to later. John gulped as a slow weight settled at his groin.

“Number twenty-one, calling number twenty-one please.”

“John. John. They’re calling you.” Sherlock nudged John’s shoulder.

“Oh right. Right.” John’s eyes popped open. “You were distracting me, weren’t you, you barmy bugger?”

“Maybe. You’ll be fine.” Sherlock smirked. “Go.”

 

Things went better than John expected. The Witch judging his apparating was no-nonsense but not unkind. When John completely failed to apparate a millimetre his first try, she simply nodded. “Most people don’t get it in one. Take your time, son.”

Thankfully he did much better on his next attempt, apparating clear across the field from one hoop set on the ground to the next. “YES!” John fist pumped into the air. Sherlock appeared beside him in an instant grinning like a fool.

“Congratulations, Mr. Watson. You are now certified to apparate,” his examiner said, extending her palm. 

“Thank you! Thanks so much, ma’am!” John grinned, shaking her hand.

“Now, If you’ll just join the queue to the desk on the end there, you can receive your certificate.” She pointed them onward. John thanked her again, and they moved on.

“I did it, love, I did it.” John smiled at Sherlock once he had the certificate in hand.

“I knew you would.” Sherlock slipped a wiry arm around his shoulders.

“Congratulations, John.” Both their heads snapped up as Mycroft appeared again from out of the crowd. 

“Thanks, Mycroft.” John said.

“I thought perhaps a dinner celebration might be in order . . .”

“Sorry, Mycroft, we can’t join you, we have plans.” Sherlock cut him off.

“You misunderstand.” Mycroft smiled patiently. “I do have my own things to attend to this evening, but I made reservations for you two at the Madcap Mushroom at seven. All expenses on me, but if you’re busy . . .”

“Oh, no, I think we could bend our plans for that,” John said. “Thanks, Mycroft . . . that’s good of you.”

“Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Mycroft melted away into the crowd once more.

“He’s good at that,” John said.

“He’s a drama queen.” Sherlock snorted.

“Look, if you don’t want to go to the Mushroom, we don’t have to . . .”

“Nonsense, that’s your favourite restaurant in Hogsmeade. Of course we’re going.”

“Good.” John smiled. “Oh, today is a good one.” He tugged Sherlock closer. “But mostly just because you’re here.” John went up onto his toes to press a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “We have a few hours. Why don’t we go back to the room?”

“You have very good ideas, John Watson.”

“I’ll have even more once we get to the room.” John waggled his eyebrows comically, and Sherlock laughed. It was a lovely sound.

John led the way as they slipped out of the pink tent. “Sherlock.” John halted in his tracks before they’d gone more than a few paces. “I could . . .” He waved a hand between them.

“John.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. A smile crept over his mouth.

John extended his arm. “Why don’t you hang on?” John felt like he was about to step off a cliff.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sherlock took John’s arm firmly with both hands.

“Okay.” John licked his lips. He thought of where he wanted to go, turned toward it, and moved across space and time to step onto the front step of the Three Broomsticks Inn with Sherlock at his side. It turned out apparating was MUCH nicer than side-appartating. John turned to him, a smile so wide it hurt his face. 

Sherlock looked a bit windblown, his hair mussed, but his eyes were sparkling bright. “Oh, WELL done, John.”

“Yeah, that was good, wasn’t it?” John felt about ten feet tall as he pulled the door open to usher Sherlock inside.

Noise from the busy pub greeted them as they made their way to the stairs to the rooms above. John slowed as he recognized Victoire sat at a table by the windows. “Oh hang on a, mo.” John called over his shoulder as he headed her way.

“Victoire! Hey!” John grinned. “Guess who just passed the apparating exams!” John flourished his new certificate proudly as he neared her table.

“Oh, John, Brilliant!” Victoire smiled brightly. “Now you can apparate out of the way when any bludgers go for your fat head.”

“Yeah, ha, ha,” John said.

“No, really that’s brilliant. I was glad . . . oh hullo Sherlock.” Victoire’s eyes moved beyond John at Sherlock’s approach.

“Hello, Victoire.” Sherlock nodded politely, stopping beside John.

“How’s Germany?”

“Foreign,” Sherlock said, “but I am learning a great deal at Herr Mosher’s workshop. It more than makes up for any inconveniences.”

“Well, that’s good then,” she said. “I know John, here, misses the crap out of . . .”

They were interrupted next by Rhys Winters hulking in with two mugs of butterbeer clasped in his large hands. He set one on the table before Victoire, glancing uncertainly at John and Sherlock.

“Googy, thanks!” Victoire smiled as she spun the mug around to reach the handle. “Hey, you know John, and this is his boyfriend, Sherlock.” She jerked her chin his way. “He’s up visiting from Germany.”

“Hi.” Rhys nodded. He put his own glass down, but remaining standing.

“John was just telling me he passed his exam too. It gives me hope for my turn next year if you two berks can pass.” Victoire chuckled before raising her glass to take drink. Both John and Rhys gave a half-hearted laugh, as Sherlock looked pointedly around their group.

“ John, are you two busy? Do you want to join us?” She smiled guilelessly up at him.

“NO!” Rhys and John both barked at once.

“Erm, sorry that is to say,” John hastened to add. “Sherlock and I have a reservation at the Mushroom.” He reached out to slide an arm around Sherlock, tugging him closer. Sherlock refused to bend against him, and the effect was rather like hugging a small tree trunk.

“Ah, well, good. Enjoy that.” Victoire quirked an eyebrow as she glanced around them all.

“Yeah.” Rhys added as he dropped to his seat, scooping up Victoire’s hand to hold across the table.“Have fun.”

“All right then. See you later, Vic.” John waved, hustling Sherlock back to the stairs.

“Well, they won’t be going out very long,” Sherlock remarked as they reached their room.

“Really?” John’s eyebrows climbed. “What makes you say that?”

“A number of things.” Sherlock shrugged offhandedly. “Neither of their groups of friends likes their romantic partner, and that puts a strain on things, plus Rhys isn’t as keen on girls as he likes to think. The novelty of their situation will wear off soon.”

“Huh, fancy that.” John stood as Sherlock unlocked their door.

“If he kisses you again, I’ll have to send him a hex through the mail.” Sherlock held the door open for John to follow him inside.

“Oh please.” John huffed, walking over to flop back across the newly-made bed. “He can’t be that good. I can’t even remember it. Besides, there’s someone else I’d MUCH rather be kissing.” John propped himself up on an elbow, to beckon Sherlock with a crooked finger. “Come here, you. It’s been much too long since I last kissed you.”

“Is that so. It can’t have been more than two hours since we got out of that bed.”

“Yes, simply ages,” John agreed. “Come here. We don’t have to be at dinner for awhile yet.”

“Mmmm, that is good,” Sherlock said, a fire twinkling in his eyes as he crossed to the bed.

They were nearly late for their reservation, but made it into the restaurant before their table was given away. John smiled as they settled into their semi-private booth. Hogsmeade was crowded with all the people in town for the apparating exams, and John felt grateful for Mycroft’s gift of their dinner. They didn’t talk about it, but Sherlock was generally the one who ended up paying for things when they went out. John had a bit of dosh to his name, working the summer stint at Uptown Realty had helped too, but he couldn’t afford to splash out like Sherlock could. John knew Sherlock had a stack of gold back at his Gringotts bank account in London while John only had a stack of coins bundled into a sock at school.

They ordered the fondue and enjoyed hanging over the steaming pot at the center of the table, feeding each other tidbits from their long forks. Candles at the table, and a flickering wall sconce threw flattering warm light over Sherlock’s elegant face. John thought his heart might just burst from sheer happiness.

“Owl droppings.” Sherlock swore when he dropped a bit of bread into the pot of molten cheese, and had to go fishing for it. John propped his chin into the heel of one hand to savor the sight of Sherlock intently poking about then triumphantly spearing his missing bread. Sherlock stretched a long string of cheese over himself as he ferried the bite to his mouth. John smiled indulgently at him.

“What?” Sherlock asked around the hot mouthful.

“You’ve a bit, love, just there.” John pointed a finger to the side of his own mouth, watching as Sherlock scrubbed a serviette over the cheese on his face.

“John.” Sherlock set his fork down to reach over and clasp John’s palm in his own. “I’ve missed you so.”

“I know, love, me too.” John ran a thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand and tried not to think on tomorrow, hoping it might never come.

Sadly, it came all the same no matter what John wished. In an eye blink it seemed, it was time to check out of their room with their bags all packed. John walked Sherlock to the Hogsmeade portkey station as the luggage pattered amiably behind them. They’d hardly slept the night before, clinging to each other in tangled sheets, and gasping out declarations. The dark had been nudging into dawn when they'd finally dropped off for a few hours of sleep. John dragged his feet, as they walked hand in hand, stopping to admire things in shop windows. Finally Sherlock pulled out his pocket watch, and declared that it was time for him to leave.

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock looked a bit desperate, tugging John in close to fold him into his arms. “I’m sorry I have to go.”

“Me too.” John snuffled against Sherlock’s neck. He took a deep breath then, pulling himself together. “Come on.” He gave Sherlock’s arse a firm pat as he stepped back. “We don’t want you to miss your lift.”

John walked with Sherlock into the portkey station. It was an old building with tall windows, a much smaller space than the one he’d seen in London, but still filled with the hustle and bustle of people with too many parcels and bags in transit. The smell of burnt coffee seemed to linger no matter where they went, and it only added to John’s already plummeting mood. John chewed his lip, watching as Sherlock found his gate. Sherlock turned, his pale eyes cloudy as a winter sky.

“Bye, love.” John crooked up the side of his mouth.

“Bye, John.”

“Write to me.”

“As often as I can. John, I’ll try to be back in a couple of weeks, okay? As soon as I can get my next whole weekend off.”

“Okay, love. I’m counting the minutes.”

The side of Sherlock’s mouth crooked up sadly, and then they were back in each other’s arms, clutching for a final goodbye.

John squeezed Sherlock’s skinny length tight. “Promise me you’ll remember to eat more, okay? No working through all your meals. Food. Twice a day, all right?”

“All right, I promise.”

They pulled apart reluctantly so Sherlock could join the queue at final call.

John watched as Sherlock approached the uniformed Wizard collecting tickets, lingering nearby. Sherlock’s case worked its way ahead of him to follow like an obedient puppy at Sherlock’s heels. For a mad moment, John wished he could climb inside of it, pack himself away to go too.

“And your ticket, sir?” The station worker turned politely to John.

“No, I’m not going.” John shook his head. “Just seeing off.”

“Very good, sir. Please just remain behind the rope.”

John watched as Sherlock and a handful of passengers took their places around the long mop on the platform. Sherlock reached down to grasp the handle of his luggage as they counted down the portkey’s departure. John lifted a hand to wave as it neared the end. Sherlock nodded, his sad eyes locked onto John’s and then the portkey activated, and Sherlock was swept away.

John glanced at the heartstone bracelet around his wrist, watching as the colours faded and went dim as its other half travelled far away. A lump rose in John’s throat and he swallowed, afraid he was about to start crying in public.

“Oh poor, dearie.” An older Witch clucked beside John. “Boyfriend’s gone off, has he?”

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat, grateful for the distraction. “Sherlock graduated last year. I’ve still got one more year at school left.”

The woman nodded sagely. “I had something like that with my first girlfriend. She got a job on the other side of the globe. New Zealand. Like to give us fits waiting for holidays and such to visit. Don’t you worry though, dear. Christmas is just around the corner, and you and your man will be back together.”

“I think we’ll be back together before then, but yeah, thanks.” John smiled at her. “So, what happened with you and your girlfriend?”

“Oh, we broke up. It was just too far to keep things going properly.” The woman shrugged carelessly as she worked a tissue from her handbag to dab at her nose. “Oh, but I didn’t mean . . .” Her head snapped up as she realized what she had just said. “I didn’t mean YOU, dearie. Oh, not at all. Things will probably be just fine for you.” She patted his arm.

“Erm, yeah, thanks.” John ducked his head and turned to make his way back to Hogwarts.

 

***

 

“John, you aren’t doing it correctly. It’s a swish and a flick as you think _Colovaria._ ” Tom complained. “You’re missing the flick.”

John sighed. He’s been trying all of Charms class to change the red apple on his desk to a different colour with the nonverbal spell, but it remained stubbornly rosy. John tried the charm again.

“There did it go a bit pink?” He squinted at the fruit.

“No.” Dom looked over. “Watch me.” He raised his wand, screwed up his face, and with a complicated wave, his apple turned a gorgeous shade of aquamarine. “You just have to concentrate.”

“Well, that’s me screwed.” John sighed, sitting back in his chair. “I can’t do it.”

“Come on, John. You can do it. See the apple, feel the apple. _Beeee_ the apple.” Tom raised his eyebrows comically. He’d managed to turn his apple just a bit orange.

“Sorry, not feeling very apple today." John grumped. 

John blew out a breath, and raked his fingers back through his hair. It was nearly lunchtime and his stomach gave a warning rumble in anticipation. John had had a horrible time all morning trying to keep his mind on his classes. He kept replaying his weekend with Sherlock over and over reliving particularly key moments. John thought about the way Sherlock had squeaked so delightfully when John had sucked on his toes. A small smile spread over his face at the memory of what they'd done right AFTER that. Sleeping without Sherlock last night had been a right misery. John didn’t know what was worse, getting used to no Sherlock for weeks on end, or seeing him on a too-short trip and then needing to acclimatize to a lack of Sherlock all over again. He sighed deeply.

“All right, class we’re at the end of our time together. Good work everyone, ” Professor Pinworthy called out. “You may take your apples with you if you like, or place them gently back in the basket on my desk.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as students stood and gathered their things. The twins moved to return their colourful apples at the front of the room. John gave his a last sullen poke with his wand.

“Watson.” Professor Pinworthy stopped beside his desk. “I heard you passed your apparating exam this past weekend. Excellent job.”

“Thank you, professor.” John looked up, pleased.

She glanced down at John’s still very red apple. “Ah, not much luck with _Colovaria_ this morning though I see.” She clucked her tongue. “Ah well, no matter. There’s always tomorrow to try again.”

“Yes, professor.”

“Still, the apparating. Not everyone passes on their first try, you know.” She smiled as she patted his shoulder. “I’m giving fifteen points to Gryffindor for you getting your certificate. Good job that, very good. ” She winked as she moved on.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you ma’am.” John smiled as he scooped up his apple and crunched a satisfying bite from it.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s letters came thick and fast with the Owl Post over the next fortnight, but then they tapered off again after that. John has already sent him three notes and not heard back. John sighed as his owl, Simpson, flew overhead at breakfast dropping off a letter from his mum, but no sign of anything from Sherlock.

John used his butter knife to slit open the envelope, trying not to be too narky about getting mail from home. Sometimes his mother even sent a few quid that he could change into Wizard money at the bank in Hogsmeade. John pulled out the letter that was sadly missing any banknotes, and skimmed his eyes over the text.

“Dear John, hope you are doing well . . . blah . . blah . . . Harry has a new job . . . blah . . . I wanted to let you know I’ve been seeing a very nice man named Stephen Masters. I met him at an Open House. I didn’t want to tell you about him if things weren’t going anywhere, but we’ve been seeing each other every week now . . “

“Ooh, look what Owen got. Biscuits. Come on, give over.” Teddy banged on the table. 

John glanced up to see Owen lifting a biscuit from a large box in front of him. “Yup.” He grinned. “Jammy dodgers. Me mum does a bang up job with them.” He took a large bite, sighing before sliding the box over to Teddy. Teddy took a few, and moved it over John.

“Thanks, mate.” John helped himself to one before passing it to the twins. The crumbly sweetness burst over his tongue as he bit into it. “Oh, these are good. Tell your mum to send more.”

“I’ll have to if you nobs eat them all in one go. Hey, leave some for everyone else, Tom.” Owen cried as Tom grabbed for a handful. “Me mum made them for my _birthday._ ”

“Sorry.” Tom grumbled putting most of them back.

Dom reached about to grab one of his own. “Berk,” he said good naturedly.

John finished off the jammy dodger, licked his fingers, and looked back down at the letter. Nothing important. His mum just rambled on more about the fabulous Stephen bloke for a few more paragraphs. John sighed and stuffed the letter back into its envelope. Even his mum was seeing more action than he was these days.

 

***

 

“All right. Bleeding Slytherins." Teddy glared up at the other team as they made their way from the locker rooms to the Quidditch pitch. "I booked the field starting fifteen minutes ago,” he complained. The Gryffindors watched as the Slytherin team zoomed about, not making the slightest move to pack it in. 

“Yeah, we always practice on Thursdays. Idiots.” Owen snorted.

“Come on, Seth.” Teddy nodded to one of their new chasers, a tall, sturdy boy. “Let’s go tell these tossers to shove off.” He jumped on to his broom and made to kick off.

“Hang on, Teddy. Something’s not right.” John laid a hand to his arm to stop him. “Look.”

They all craned their necks, watching the Slytherins flying overhead more closely. It soon became apparent that one player streaked frantically about while the rest of them scattered behind in a confused flurry. A sped-up bludger looked to be hot on the tail of the lone rider, following them no matter how they dodged and feinted.

“Bludger’s gone rogue,” Victoire said grimly coming to stand next to John.

“Yeah, this is a job for beaters,” John said. “Teddy, come on, you can stupefy the thing once we get it away from that one.” He nodded at the broom rider who looked quite panicked as he turned again narrowly missing a direct hit. 

“You lot, stay here.” Teddy yelled at the rest of the team as he, and Victoire, and John pushed off on their brooms to join the melee overhead. They flew in quickly.

“BLOODY HELL, Peregrin, go LEFT!” Malfus, the captain of the Slytherin team yelled. “Crusher, BEHIND YOU!” It was clear he was trying to contain matters, but his players hung back, reluctant to get in the path of the dangerous bludger.

“Help! It’s locked on to Alastaire. We can’t get it away from him!” A Slytherin girl, Angelique Grayson, called over, her face white as the Gryffindors drew near.

John glanced at Victoire and she nodded. The two of them had been playing Beaters together going on their third year now. Like a well-oiled machine, they took off at top speed together, narrowing in on the bludger that dogged Alastaire Holmes. 

John raised his bat as they streaked in, side by side, and noted out of the corner of his eye as Vic did the same. Alastaire was a good flier, and he gave the bludger a fair chase, but John could see he was tiring, slowing down. He and Victorice drew near, but they couldn’t get close enough to get a good swing in without hitting Alastaire.

“Alastaire!” John called out. “GO TO THE GROUND. FLY DOWN AND PULL UP.”

Alastaire chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, and no more, but it was clear he’d gotten the message. He streaked toward the ground with the mad ball, and the Gryffindor Beaters right behind him. The green of the field rushed toward them at an alarming speed, but at the last moment, the three Quidditch players pulled up. The unwitting ball kept going, slamming into the turf. In but a moment, it wrenched itself free from the ground to continue its grim chase. John and Victoire swung in, on it in an instant as the ball zoomed back up.

CRACK. John hit the bludger sending it soaring toward Victoire with all his might. SMACK. She countered it smoothly sending the ball back. They drew closer beating the ball back and forth, countering it as it tried to get away and continue its odd, single-minded pursuit of Alastaire. 

“COME ON!” Victoire yelled. “someone STUPEFY this . . .” she whacked the ball back to John “. . . sodding thing!”

Teddy flew near. “Stupefy!” He cried, brandishing his wand. The spell flew wide. “Stupefy, stupefy!” Teddy called, missing the ball repeatedly as it streaked in a blur between the two Beaters.

Suddenly Victoire went rigid, her face a rictus of shock as one of Teddy's spell glanced her shoulder. She slipped sideways, tumbling from her broom. Teddy cried out as he streaked forward to catch her.

John thought they’d lost their chance to stop the bloody ball when a Beater from the Slytherins, a bloke named Peregrin, slid in and caught it, whacking it back to John. Their other Beater, Crusher, joined him, and between the three of them, they kept the ball moving in a circle. The Slytherin girl, Grayson, got out her wand and caught the projectile with a well-timed “STUPEFY!” The bludger dropped to the ground with a thud . . . and finally stayed there.

“God.” John collapsed over his broom handle, panting. 

“Merlin.” Alastaire flew up alongside John looking quite done in.

They watched as others swarmed in to collect the ball, securing it within its case before it had a mind to start up again. There were now two very deep holes in the field where the deranged thing had impacted.

“What the bloody HELL was that?” Malfus exclaimed flying up to join them.

“Rogue bludger,” John managed to get out. “It happens.”

“Watson.” Alastaire looked up to catch John’s eye. “You saved my life.”

“Eh, it seemed like the thing to do.” John shrugged.

“Thank you.” Alastaire extended an unsteady hand.

“Yeah, no worries, mate.” John reached over and clasped it.

Someone made a strangled squeak of a noise, and John looked over to find Rhys Winters hovering on his broom nearby. The Slytherin stared numbly below, a look of shock on his face.

John followed his gaze to see Teddy with his arms around a revived Victoire on the ground. The pair of them seemed to be trying out for an "ecstatic snogging" competition. By the looks of things, they were in the lead.

“Ah.” John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well.”

 

***

 

John wrote to Sherlock about the great Bludger Caper, of course. It was the most excitement he’d had in weeks barring the time in Transfigurations class when Dom accidentally expanded a budgie to the size of an Elephant, and it collapsed the work bench.

Sherlock sent a note in reply the next day,

“My dear, brave John.

That was good of you to save Alastaire. It’s more than the git deserves. I have some good news and some bad news. Let’s get the bad news out first. I’m sorry, but I can’t get a weekend free coming up. I know, I hate it too. The workshop is swamped with orders, and we interns are expected to do our fair share and more. However, the good news, the workshop closes down from Christmas to New Year’s. I’ll need to go in a few times to check on things, but otherwise I’ll be free. You can spend Christmas with your family, and then travel here on Boxing Day. Think of it, a whole week together John!!! I’ll send you a portkey ticket. Don’t argue. I can spare the money, you can’t.

I miss you terribly,  
SH” 

John reread the note for the tenth time that afternoon on his bed. He kept all of Sherlock’s letters safe in his trunk in his room, only taking them out when he was alone in the dorm room, fanning them out over the duvet. He smiled when he pulled out the picture of the two of them in Greece mugging for the camera at that taverna. They looked so happy. John touched his fingers to the surface of the print as the two of them laughed soundlessly and pulled each other into a kiss. Did his hair really stick up like? Sherlock looked simply glorious, all long limbs, and freckled pale skin. After a moment it hurt too much to watch, and John had to pack it all away in his trunk again.

One good thing to come out of the Bludger Caper was a thawing of relations between John and Alastaire Holmes. While he and the posh nob were never going to be great friends, the boy had stopped openly antagonizing him, and had even given him a bit of advice in a Potions class to add more lovage than the recipe called for.

A second good thing was of course having Victoire back with the group again. She and Rhys had summarily broken up after that snogfest on the field, leaving her open to officially hook up with Teddy. John had to smile at the two of them finishing each other’s sentences. They looked good together, and Teddy’s ongoing magnanimous mood spilled into much reduced Quidditch practice as the temperatures dropped outside. If John walked in on the two of them snogging in the common room, he was fine with looking the other way. It wasn’t as if he and Sherlock hadn’t bent the good grace of others getting off in public a few times themselves. Sherlock, oh, Sherlock. John dreamt about him almost every night. Sometimes Sherlock was lost and John had to wander unfamiliar streets calling his name, frantic to find him, but other nights Sherlock lay stretched out beside him, and John would wake in a hot flush to bundle his sheets up for the laundry. 

John crossed off the days on the calendar by his bed one by one, marking time to the break. Time crawled by until exams were upon them, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Everyone’s tempers flared as people scurried about, panicking about their grades, and scrapping at the merest slight. John enjoyed the nights he had prefect duty, patrolling the mostly quiet halls. He watched the progress of the holiday decorations as they appeared around the castle bringing cheer as the days grew ludicrously short outside. John grinned at the fairy lights in the corridors, the evergreen boughs lining the staircases, and the tall pine trees set up around the great hall. It hardly seemed possible, but finally it was only days and not weeks before term’s end. True to his word, Sherlock sent John an open ticket to Heidleberg from London to use when he was able to get away from his Mum’s. John had half a mind to skip going home at all, but his mother had begged him to come visit, and he’d agreed. It wasn't his first choice, but his mother didn’t deserve to be stuck with Harry alone for Christmas.

John walked his last patrol the night before break, about to pack it in when he finally saw something more unusual than a couple lingering in a dark space, or some Ravenclaws trying to camp out in the library. John turned a corner and came face to face with none other than Mycroft Holmes in a corridor of the teachers’ quarters. The man stepped into the hallway, pulling a door closed behind him when he looked up and spotted John.

“Ah, John, good evening.” Mycroft crooned as if this were a completely usual turn of affairs.

“Mycroft.” John nodded, surprised to see him.

“While talking with you was not the main order of business on my visit to Hogwarts, I was reasonably assured I might have the chance to enjoy your company here as well.”

‘”Yeah?” John’s eyes couldn’t help flickering over the nameplate on the door behind Mycroft, “Professor Lestrade” and running over Mycroft again to find the collar of his usually-impeccable robe slightly askew, and his thinning hair not as smoothly combed back as usual. John kept his face bland, one didn’t spend time patrolling as a prefect without becoming somewhat inured to what people might be getting up to after hours, but Mycroft saw the movement of his gaze nonetheless, and stiffened.

“Erm, it’s good to see you too.” John started. “I meant to thank you earlier for that dinner at the Madcap Mushroom. That was really nice of you.”

“Of course, John, it was but a trifle.” Mycroft nodded, relaxing as he saw John was not about to make any comments on what night time activities _had_ brought him to Hogwarts. 

Truly that would be the pot calling the kettle black John thought with a wry smile. Still, Mycroft Holmes on a booty call. Well. “Still, we really enjoyed it,” John said.

“Splendid.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “John, I have it on good authority that you’ll be visiting my brother over the holidays. I wonder if you might give him a small gift from me, save me the trouble of posting it?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” John nodded.

Mycroft patted about his person before reaching into a side pocket and withdrawing a flat box wrapped securely in a bright red paper. “Ah, here we go,” he said, dropping it onto John’s outstretched palm. “If you would be so good as to deliver that, I would be much obliged.”

“No worries, Mycroft.”

“John, my family isn’t much in the habit of celebrating things like Christmas, but I appreciate your going out to spend time with Sherlock during the holidays.” Mycroft hesitated a moment before continuing on. “My brother isn’t one to share much about his personal life, but I believe he has suffered a great deal in Heidleberg with your absence. I believe he’s been quite . . . lonely.”

Something hot and sharp flared in John’s stomach at that. It wasn’t as if John hadn’t been pining for Sherlock all these months apart himself. Still the idea of Sherlock far from home, alone and hurting sent an ache through John He literally itched to reach out and touch Sherlock, pulling him close to comfort him. John flexed his fingers in response.

“I’ve missed him too,” John managed to say.

“Well, how fortunate the hour is finally upon you for visiting.” A smile that no doubt was meant to be warm and genial stretched Mycroft's mouth. “Safe journeys, John.”

“Erm, you too, Mycroft.”

“Although it is a tad early, I’d like to wish you a Happy Christmas.”

“Yeah, Happy Christmas,” John repeated, feeling slightly off as he watched Sherlock’s odd, older brother disappearing down the hallway in his usual dramatic swirl of dark fabric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would be like a big slug of Elixir of Euphoria if you'd drop a note my way if you enjoyed the latest chapter! :D
> 
> ****
> 
> Also, I must give a big shout out to Terry Pratchett for borrowing his sentient luggage from the Discworld series for this fic. (May he rest in peace!)


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After too long apart, the lads finally have a bit of time together in Germany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self-flossing string mints to my lovely betas, the-navel-treatment and otp221b, for their ongoing, fabulous help with this rambling beast of a fic. We're getting there!
> 
> ****
> 
> P.S. I am NOT the polyglot I pretend to be here. All my German phrases were generated from Google translate. If an actual speaker of German sees glaring flaws with any of it, I'd love to hear corrections! K thanks! ;)  
> (UPDATE: Undying thanks to Succubus for their corrections to my German here - Danke!)

***

Sherlock took a long drag from his cigarette, relishing the soothing burn deep in his lungs. He held it a moment before letting the smoke burst forth in a stream. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t smoke while John was visiting, but waiting for him, aching to see him . . . well, he’d cut himself some slack for now.

John. _John_ was finally coming.

Sherlock felt certain his entire being vibrated at some higher frequency heard only by dogs and small children. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out the folded note inside, opening it to read through it again.

_“Most gorgeous boyfriend,_  
_I reserved a space on the 10 am portkey to Heidleberg on Boxing Day._  
_Hope to be holding your sweet arse by 10:15 am._  
_Much love,_  
_John  
_ _xoxoxo”_

Sherlock smiled as he ran his fingertips over the written letters, smoothing the creases of the paper over and over as if handling the note might somehow bring him closer to John. Eventually he refolded it, slipping it carefully into his pocket again.

A multitude of church bells chimed outside pulling his attention back to the moment. _Christmas day, of course._ Sherlock rolled off his bed and crossed the room, sticking his fag between his lips to throw open the window with both hands. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten that it was Christmas exactly, it was just that with no one to celebrate with, the day hadn’t held any particular significance.

The bright peal of the bells filled the room along with a gust of wintry air. Sherlock perched himself on the window sill relishing the fresh clean breeze as it swept into his room. He finished his smoke with one long pull, grabbing a small dish he used as an ashtray to crush out the dog end. A sudden blast of wind convinced him to push the window closed, but the snap of winter had done its work. Feeling re-energized about doing something with the room before John arrived, Sherlock grabbed his wand, and pushed back his sleeves.

***

Sherlock arrived early at the portkey station, ridiculously so. He parked himself at a café and bought an overpriced cup of tea, nursing it as he waited, watching the passersby. So many people dashed about for the holidays, it made his head spin after all the time spent in the quiet confines of the potions workshop.

Finally, it was time. Sherlock binned his cup, found John’s arrival gate, and stood, nerves pinging waiting for the portkey to arrive. 

With a whoosh of air, the travelers appeared to fill the platform clutching the long ruler between them. Sherlock scanned the group quickly finding John’s blond head in the middle. He stood squashed between a woman bulging with carryalls, and a tired-looking man holding a toddler who seemed to have been shocked quiet mid-cry. John’s face shifted to something incandescent when he spotted Sherlock.

With barely suppressed impatience, Sherlock waited for the people to file out, and John to emerge. At last, John broke free, standing out in his Muggle jeans and zip top, moving until he was near enough to touch. Sherlock pulled John in, folding him into his arms. They stood locked, Sherlock just breathing in the smell of John’s hair crushed to his face. It was almost too good to be true.

“How . . .” Sherlock barely managed to say before John’s mouth was on his own, and all thoughts scattered away save one . . . _John._

It was heaven losing himself in the taste and feel of John, the soft groan that escaped the back of John’s throat. After an age of kissing, and a smattering of whistles and clapping somewhere behind them, they finally surfaced for air.

“God, Sherlock, it’s so good to see you. Why did we wait so long? That was too long.”

“I know. I know, John, it’s good to see you too.”

John looked lovely, bubbling over, but Sherlock could see a tightness around his eyes. “Christmas didn’t go well with your family?”

“Christ, it was mad. Mum’s new fellow, Stephen, God, he came over for Christmas Eve, and brought his kids. It was awful – two little brats who wanted to be at their mother’s house. They were going there right after dinner. Harry got mullered and started singing x-rated carols. At least on Christmas day, Harry had a hangover and it was just us . . . what, have I got egg on my face or something?” John broke off.

“No, of course not why?”

“You’re just staring at me.” John smiled.

“It’s just so good to have you here . . . finally.”

“It’s good to be here. So, shall we . . ?” John gestured forward. “I have plans for you Mr. Holmes.” John dropped his voice as his hand snaked over to give Sherlock’s rear a little pat.

Sherlock flushed happily. 

They linked hands. Sherlock enjoyed seeing the silly bracelets with the heartstones glowing madly side by side as they made their way to the floo network at the edge of the station. Sherlock gave John his address, and they traveled to Sherlock’s boarding house, Sherlock going first, stepping out of the fireplace into the small lobby to wait for John. 

Sherlock led John up the stairs suddenly feeling nervous at showing him the little bedsit he’d called home for the past four months. It wasn’t as if he’d spent any real time in the place, mostly leaving at dawn for work, and returning late at night to collapse into the bed, but still . . .

“Sherlock. What is all this?” John’s mouth fell open as dropped his bag on the ground, turning slowly to survey the room. 

Swags of twined holly and ivy, strings of fairy lights, red baubles and silver bells all competed for space as they lined the walls. Shelves of white candles flickered merrily to life while a gentle snowfall sifted down from the ceiling only to disappear a few inches above their heads.

At their feet, a model train filled with tiny toys moved along on a track that meandered around all of the furniture, past the small table and two chairs, the cupboards in the tiny kitchenette area, the book cases and chest of drawers, until it disappeared under one corner of the bed pushed against the wall to reemerge on the other side and repeat the route. The bells on the walls gave a festive jingle every few minutes as the tiny train whistle blew.

“Oh, and this!” John turned to discover the small family of gingerbread men dancing a scene from the Nutcracker on top of one of the bookshelves. Sherlock’s fingers twisted absentmindedly into his hair to tug. Perhaps he’d gone just a tad overboard on the Christmas things.

“Well, that’s a bang up job of decorating. Bloody great!” John grinned as he turned to face him.

“Good,” Sherlock said feeling relieved. “I’m glad you like it.”

“What did you do yesterday?” John asked, tilting his head to the side. Merlin, he was so beautiful with the fairy lights reflecting in his dark eyes, Sherlock had to catch his breath for just a moment.

“Nothing special,” Sherlock said.

“I meant to ask, your Grand-mère doesn’t celebrate Christmas? You never go stay with her for the holidays?”

“Oh, she and Philippe go away somewhere warm every year. I think this time it was Tahiti.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

John hunkered down to watch the toy train continuing on its course, chugging up a small hill created by a stack of books. He chuckled as the teddies got out to push the caboose when the engine stalled on the steep incline.

“John, are you hungry we could go out . . .” Sherlock gestured toward the door. “I’m afraid I don’t keep much here.”

“God, no. The FOOD Mum made for Christmas. You’d have thought the invading armies were coming. I’d be happy not to eat again until the new year. Unless you’d like to go out . . .” John straightened up, dusting off his knees.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Sherlock found himself feeling suddenly tongue tied. Although he’d dreamed about John coming for ages and ages, he’d never quite planned out the visit beyond wrapping himself around John and holding on tight. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what a good host needed to actually do.

“Good.” John licked his lips and flashed a glance toward Sherlock’s tidily-made double bed. “I was hoping . . .”

“Yes!” Sherlock barked out. 

John giggled and Sherlock joined in. Whatever temporary awkwardness he’d been feeling disappeared as they dove into the familiar ritual of pulling their clothes off as quickly as possible and falling into bed together.

“ John, I missed you!”

“God, I missed you more.”

“Mmm, you feel good.”

“Come here, you.”

“What, like that?”

“Yeeees. Exactly like that.”

“Oh. Oooooooh.”

It was much later, turning dark when they decided they might just put on clothes and go look for food after all. Sherlock’s building sat in a fully magical neighborhood, and there were loads of Wizarding restaurants around to chose from. Sherlock suggested one that he’d had lunch at a few times with others from the workshop, and John readily agreed. Sherlock rifled through his chest of drawers as John knelt to dig a Wizard robe from his rucksack on the floor.

A loud scrabbling noise issued from under the bed, and John nearly fell over in surprise. "CHRIST! Sherlock, what is that?" John fumbled for his wand. 

"Relax, it's just the luggage," Sherlock said, as the suitcase in question peeked out from under the bed frame. "It didn't fit anywhere else in here."

"God, warn a guy next time!" John shook his head, huffing out a laugh. He stood to pull on a slightly-creased robe that went nicely with his twilight blue eyes. "Is this okay?"

"Perfect." Sherlock smiled at him. "It really isn't a dressy place at all."

They left the boarding house, fingers entwined, laughing, their breath making clouds in the chilly air. They walked through the cobblestone streets, John exclaiming how adorable all the old buildings looked until they reached their destination, a Turkish place tucked back under a stone archway. 

“When I pictured Germany, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.” John looked about at the large blown-glass lamps, and patterned red tapestries hung all around. 

“We’ll go out for beer and wienerschnitzel tomorrow if you like.” Sherlock smiled.

“Good,” John said. “You still need to add a few pounds.” He frowned slightly. “I thought we had a deal, two proper meals a day.”

“Oh, John, I’m sorry, I have tried." Sherlock blew out a breath. "It’s just that things get so busy at work. I forget sometimes.”

John’s face softened as he leaned forward to squeeze Sherlock’s arm. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to harp on. So, what’s good here?” He glanced over the menu.

They ate a leisurely meal, John exclaiming when a stringed instrument on the wall behind him began playing. It strummed out lovely, haunting tunes to accompany their dinner.

“It’s called a bağlama,” Sherlock said when John wondered about it.

“The things you know,” John said, loopy on the wine, propping his cheek against his fist over the table. He smiled so fondly at Sherlock, that every last ice crystal that had accumulated in his heart over the past few months melted away.

“Let’s go back home,” John said with a certain gleam in his eye. Sherlock couldn’t call for the bill quickly enough.

 

***

Sherlock woke the next morning, blinking into the bright light, and panicked, thinking he was late for work. A snuffle and a snort from the warm lump sleeping next to him brought the previous day rushing back. Oh, John was here, of course, and the workshop wasn't open today. Sherlock couldn’t believe his good fortune when he needed to but turn over to drag John into an embrace. John only half woke as he rolled against him. 

“Morning, you,” John mumbled.

“Good morning.” Sherlock smiled, thrilled to be witness to John’s eyes cracking open for the first time of the day. Even John’s morning breath smelled warm and comfortable.

Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, and it was like sinking into sunshine to have John’s soft lips moving over his own. John rumbled a pleased sound, pushing Sherlock playfully onto his back. He climbed on top of him. “Well, now what’s on the agenda for today beside me having my wicked way with you?” John trailed a finger from Sherlock’s bottom lip over his chin and down his throat, stopping to rest in the hollow at the base.

“I need to go into the workshop some time today, just for a few minutes. Even though it's closed the week, there are still some potions brewing that I need to check on. I’m only needed today and tomorrow though, and then the other intern will be back to take over.”

“Ah, well, that’s fine. I wanted to see where you’ve been spending all your time anyway. I don’t mind going in to your work.” John leaned down and dropped a loud smack on Sherlock’s lips just because he could.

The silver bells around the room began ringing intermittently now that they were awake. John’s head snapped up at the sound.

“Oh, the presents.” He brought a palm to his forehead. “I have Christmas presents. I can’t believe I forgot them yesterday.”

“We were too busy unwrapping each other.” Sherlock grinned.

“Yeah, that was nice,” John said. “Still . . .” John leapt out of the bed in his pants and vest and squatted down to dig through his bag, unpacking things across the floor. Sherlock had sent the travelling toy train away the night before after John had tripped over it, stubbing his toe on the way to the loo.

Sherlock reached an arm out of the bedclothes, fished his wand off the bedside table and called “ _Accio_ , gifts.” The cupboard obligingly opened to allow several wrapped boxes to soar across the room and land on the duvet.

“Lazy,” John teased, returning with several slightly-squashed presents to add to the pile.

“You go first.” Sherlock said shyly shoving a long wrapped box into John’s hands. He didn’t know if John would like it, and the suspense was killing him.

John pulled open the wrapping paper to uncover a pair of thin gloves. “Huh.” He looked at them, lifting one out of the box. “Gloves, erm, that’s nice.”

“They’re spelled glove liners, guaranteed to keep your hands warm and dry, and impervious to harm. I thought you could use them for Quidditch.”

“Oh, OH. That’s wonderful. Thanks, Sherlock.” John beamed as he tugged Sherlock in for a quick kiss.

“Here, open this one.” John shoved a gift his way.

Sherlock hefted the wrapped item, turning it in his hands. A book obviously.

“Stop guessing, and open it!!” 

Sherlock snatched off the paper to reveal “A Compendium of Herbs and Their Uses.” He rifled through the pages. He already had a copy of the guide, but this seemed to be the latest edition. It wasn’t a cheap book by any means.

“Thank you, John.” How had John gotten the money for this?

“That one’s from Mycroft. This one is from me.” John nervously handed it over. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “Just open it,” John said, colouring slightly.

It felt lightweight, something cloth. Sherlock ripped through the paper to uncover a pair of sleek black pants. He flipped them over. They had small bees printed along the back.

“I thought . . .” John cleared his throat. “You know those red pants Harry gave me? Well I thought we could each have a special pair of pants that we wore at the same time. I dunno maybe on Mondays? It’s silly, but I thought we could keep in tou . . .”

Sherlock pushed John back and spread himself over him in one smooth move.

“I guess you like it?” John giggled.

“I like it,” Sherlock said. “Would you like to see me model them?”

“Oh, God, yes.” John’s eyes darkened instantly.

Later, when they opened the other presents, Sherlock got homemade fudge and a new scarf from John’s mum, and a complicated interlocking puzzle that John had found in a shop in Hogsmeade. Sherlock gave John a set of potions that they made at the workshop, elixirs for concentration, sound sleep, and an all-purpose nerve tonic.

“Brilliant! I can use these at exams time. Thanks!” John said, reading over the labels.

“They’re some of the most popular items we make at the workshop . . . that and sexual dysfunction potions. I didn’t think you needed any of those.”

“I think not.” John smiled, leaning in to nuzzle along Sherlock’s neck, sliding his arms around him. “God, I can’t keep my hands off of you.”

They were interrupted by a large rumble from John’s stomach. John laughed. “If I had my wish, we’d never get out of this bed, but I’m starving. Anything close for food?”

“There’s a café just down the street. They make a decent pastry.” Sherlock nodded in the general direction of the place.

“Sounds great. Ugh.” John lifted an arm to sniff himself. “I think I need a wash before we go.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock snuggled closer to burrow his nose against John. “I like it when you smell like this.”

“Huh. I might just have to eat YOU if we don’t find something else fairly soon.” John leaned in, pretending to take great bites out of Sherlock’s neck. It tickled horribly, and Sherlock cried out as John pushed him back, mouthing his way down to his stomach. John ended his assault with a big raspberry blown right over Sherlock's navel. Sherlock laughed helplessly burying his fingers in John’s hair. “STOP, stop.”

John replied with a sweet kiss. "Of course, love."

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said when he'd caught his breath. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” John smiled up him, his hair sticking every which way, his eyes, melting pools of warmth.

A tiny frisson of fear shimmered up through Sherlock’s stomach from out of nowhere. How was he ever going to keep someone as wonderful as John? The man was simply too perfect for words. Sherlock knew full well how very UNperfect he was.

“Come on,” John said sitting up and dropping a final pat to Sherlock’s hip. “Let’s get ready.”

Sherlock managed to shake the strange feeling as they busied themselves, taking turns in his tiny shower, and getting dressed to go out.

The temperature had warmed pleasantly from the night before. John grinned into the sunlight as they walked to the small café Sherlock often stopped at on his way to work. It was crowded this late in the day, but they managed to snag a small table when someone got up. They dropped their cloaks over the chairs before Sherlock led the way to order. 

"God, it smells so good in here!" John breathed in deeply.

Sherlock had to agree. The place steeped in a rich combination of melted butter, ground spices and a sharp undertone of pine from the many evergreen garlands hung festively around the room.

 _"Sherlock! Es ist schön dich zu sehen. Und wer ist das, ein Freund?"_ Frau Bertha, the apple-cheeked Witch at the counter, greeted Sherlock warmly, asking after John with a wide smile.

 _“Das ist mein Schatz, John. Er ist gerade aus Großbritannien angekommen.”_ Sherlock couldn’t help puffing up a little at introducing him. “John, this is Frau Bertha, she owns the shop.”

“Good to meet you.” John nodded.

“How good to meet you,” she drawled in a thick accent. “Zees one, coming in, always alone.” She clucked her tongue at Sherlock. “I always tell him, eat more, but every day it’s one _krapfen,_ and off he goes.” She waved a hand. “Too skinny, too skinny!”

“Yes, I agree, he does need to eat more.” John grinned at the woman, and Sherlock rolled his eyes seeing the two of them ganging up on him already.

“And you always give me two or three even though I just order the one,” Sherlock reminded her.

 _"Was darf es heute sein, für dich und deinen hübschen, jungen Mann?"_ Bertha winked at him, asking what they wanted to order.

It was nearing lunch time, and a large cauldron of soup bubbled promisingly on the hearth behind her. John undoubtedly wanted something more filling than a few doughnuts. 

“John, soup and sandwiches? They have a lunch special.” Sherlock turned his way.

“Yeah, all right, and some of those.” John pointed to the round pastries marked _Schneebälle_ in the display case. After, Sherlock placed their order and paid, they retreated to their table with the steaming cups of coffee Bertha had insisted they take.

Bertha floated their meal out to their table when it was ready, and John dug in with a groan. “Oh, this is delicious!” he mumbled around a large bite of sandwich. Sherlock had to admit, the food at Bertha’s was good. He glanced around the room, at the people relaxing around the tables, chatting, reading newspapers. Things were definitely slower this week between Christmas and the new year. It was strange, taking the time to sit in the shop, being slow himself. He glanced back at John slurping up his soup. It was strange having John here too, like two separate worlds had collided. Strange, but so fabulous. The light streaming in from the windows lit up the straw-gold color of John’s hair as he bent over his food. Sherlock almost had to pinch himself to prove that it was real. John really was here, and he wasn’t just imagining things.

John glanced about the room too as his eating tapered off to a more measured pace, and a frown knit his eyebrows together. “Sherlock,” he began.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering. Do you think you could help me with a translation spell? I mean I know the one went cock-eyed this past summer, but it’s just too weird not being able to understand anyone here. It’s driving me spare.”

“I think I could manage that,” Sherlock said, retrieving his wand, “and without Alastaire around to muck things up, it should work fine.”

It wasn’t very complicated magic. With just a few words, and a pass of his wand, the translation spell settled over John.

“Oh, that’s so much better.” John sighed, looking about, obviously more content now that the babble around him made sense. He smiled and reached for a pastry. “How do you know so many languages, love?”

“Bit of a hobby of mine when I was younger.” Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft and I had tutors before we came to Hogwarts, and I was allowed to choose the things I wanted to study.”

“How many do you speak?” John raised his eyebrows as he took a bite of his _Schneeball._

Sherlock tilted his head, considering. “I’m passable in about four, and I can stumble around in five more.”

“Fabulous, just fabulous.” John smiled. “Come on, love, eat your food.” John nudged his plate closer.

After their early lunch, they walked the short way to the workshop. It was strange to see the place shut down and quiet for the holidays. It was usually such an ant hill of activity. John admired the window displays, and the life-sized pair of nutcracker dolls Herr Moser had left guarding the front door. Sherlock gave them the password _“Butterplätzchen”_ and they stepped away to let Sherlock and John inside.

The storefront was dim with the main lights off. Only a string of white fairy lights around the room threw a faint illumination over the displays of potions and lotions, and the ubiquitous decorations, snowflakes and stars hanging from the ceiling.

“Oh, this is nice. Really lovely, Sherlock,” John said glancing about.

“This is just the shop. The real magic happens back here.” Sherlock grinned, leading the way down the corridor. “You can leave your cloak.” Sherlock motioned to the coat hooks along the wall, and they both peeled off their outer layer before entering the workshop proper.

John let off a whistle at his first look at the large space. Shelves covered in all manner of bottles and supplies filled the edges of the room while rows of countertops and stools stood in the center. Drying herbs hung from the rafters of the sloped roof giving the place a festive air, while a line of potions brewing gently over magic flame lined the stone work top along the back wall. Sherlock went to inspect the simmering brews, pulling on his goggles and dragon-skin gloves by force of habit as he moved closer.

“This puts the Potions classroom at Hogwarts to shame,” John said poking about at the huge cauldrons and equipment hung round. “I mean look at these KNIVES.” John stopped to inspect a rack of long sharp blades. “Well, this one just needs a horror film to star in.” John pulled a long cutting knife from its place, and held it up menacingly as if he were a villain about to attack.

“John, please don’t touch anything. There are sensitive items in here,” Sherlock called back over his shoulder.

“Right, sorry, love.” John sheepishly slipped the knife back into its spot.

It only took Sherlock a few minutes to stir, adjust the flame, and generally tweak the potions in progress. Once he was satisfied that all was in order, he turned, pulling his protective gear off.

John was sat on a stool, his hands shoved under this thighs obviously taking Sherlock at his word to not touch anything. Sherlock felt instantly sorry for chastising him.

“John, would you like to see something we’ve been working on?”

“Yeah, sure.” John brightened, slipping off his perch to follow.

 

Sherlock led John down the corridor and through a door to the enormous fish tank that bubbled quietly, taking up most of one wall.

“Keeping sushi around for lunchtime?” John teased, leaning in to watch some bright silver fish slipping by.

“Keeping supplies around for potions,” Sherlock said. “Look over there.” Sherlock drew near pointing over John’s shoulder. “It just moved.”

When they peered closer, something lying over the rocks, something coloured the exact tans and whites of the pebbles twitched. Sherlock tapped the tank near it with a fingernail and the fish burst up from its spot on the floor. It’s colour instantly went the wavery clear blue of the tank water until it managed to lose itself turning green in the seaweed growing along the bottom.

“It’s a chameleon fish,” Sherlock explained. “They have a way to change colour with their surroundings. We’ve been working on a way to use the chemicals in their skin to brew a potion that will work on humans.”

“Is it working?” John asked.

“We’ve had marginal success, but nothing that lasts past a few minutes.” Sherlock opened a cabinet and rummaged inside before retrieving the bottle he wanted. Sherlock uncorked the bottle and swallowed the contents down. “Let me show you.”

“Hang on! Is that SAFE?” John exploded.

“Perfectly.” Sherlock grinned at John as he methodically stripped away all of his clothing dropping it piece by piece on the counter.

“You’re sure no one else is coming in?” John licked his lips, glancing nervously about.

“We’re fine,” Sherlock said. Once he was uncovered, he moved to stand before a wall striped with an alternating a blue and green pattern.

“What . . .” John asked before his jaw dropped open.

Sherlock grinned and glanced down to see that his entire person had gone the same colours as the wallpaper behind him. 

“That’s fantastic,” John said. “I can hardly see you!”

“Well, that is the idea,” Sherlock said.

John stepped forward to grasp Sherlock’s arm. Where John had touched Sherlock shifted and turned the same colour as John’s skin. “Now that’s quite eerie,” he said.

“The colour changing effect is dynamic,” Sherlock explained, “just like the fish.”

“Well, I’ve an idea.” John smiled as he stepped away to work his robe and vest off over his head.

“John. . .” Sherlock couldn’t help the quick intake of breath as John kicked off his shoes and shimmied out of his bottoms, all his many lovely attributes appearing as he slipped the fabric down.

“Yeees?” A very naked John drawled stalking closer. He reached out to run a finger over Sherlock. It was fascinating to watch the skin ripple and change colour with each pass. John moved in closer to press himself along Sherlock’s entire length. Sherlock gasped, wrapping his arms around John’s back, and watched his arms taking on John’s gorgeous golden skin tones.

John breathed out against his neck. “Hmm, you still feel the same.” John nuzzled against him, and Sherlock’s eyes slid closed, his interest moving quickly from experiments to the feel of John’s lips moving over him. John’s hands dropped to cradle his rear, and Sherlock gulped as a suddenly southward rush of blood left him feeling quite light-headed. He wasn’t sure he could remain standing much longer.

“John, I think . . .”

“Yeah, why don’t we . . .”

Whatever John was about to say was lost when a distinct thud in the next room preceded a familiar voice calling. “Hello? Who’s here?”

“Bloody hell.” John swore. He dived for his clothes as Sherlock went for his own.

“It’s me, Sherlock.” He called out, “I’m just feeding the fish. “Don’t come in. I’ll be out in a mo . ..”

Sherlock had managed to locate his robe while John had gotten into his briefs, one arm into his vest when a pair of twinkling blue eyes popped around the doorjamb.

“Feeding the fish? Is that what they call it in the UK?” the young Witch laughed.

“IRENE.” Sherlock bristled. “Could you give us a minute, please?”

“Why? You’re still camouflaged and your friend here has his panties on.”

“A MINUTE?” Sherlock repeated.

“Oh, all right.” She huffed and retreated into the hallway, waiting until they had finished dressing.

John looked red as a tomato as he snatched up the rest of his things. “I thought you said we were safe,” he hissed.

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock apologized. “I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

When their clothes were back to rights, Sherlock let Irene know they were decent. She popped back into the room looking no less amused.

“Well, I see that potion still isn’t lasting very long.” She grinned, eyes raking over Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced down at his hands, and saw that he had indeed reverted to his natural colouring already. “Yes,” he said, “and you’re back early. I thought you weren’t here until Tuesday.”

“Oh, you know.” The Witch shrugged. “Visits with the family are such a drag. I could only take so much of the aunties up my ass before I managed to sneak off. YOU however look like you’ve been been having WAY too much fun.” Her eyes ran pointedly from Sherlock to John. If possible, John managed to blush deeper.

“John, this is Irene, the other intern,” Sherlock said. “She’s American.” He added as if that explained everything. “Irene, this is John.”

“Hullo.” John managed to wave weakly.

“Well, hello there. I thought this might be the elusive JOHN, but one hates to presume.” Irene darted forward to grab John’s hand, shaking it warmly. The form-fitting robe she wore scooped scandalously low over her bosom, and John’s eyes fell naturally to the skin on display. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You have?” John asked weakly.

“Well, no, but that one’s always mooning over your letters, and won’t ever go out with us for drinks after work. I knew you were a person of interest.” Irene’s red lips tipped up. “How are you enjoying Heidleberg?”

John cleared his throat. “Good, yeah. We haven’t seen too much yet . . .”

“Oh, I’ll bet not.” Irene laughed. “All right Sherlock, you aren’t allowed to keep him chained in your bed the whole week.”

“IRENE . . .” Sherlock cried.

“No, no, I’m only kidding.” She waved him off. “Make sure you go visit the Shrieking Castle. It’s always popular with the tourists. They serve a wonderful custard thing at their café.”

“All right," John agreed.

“Do you have plans for New Year’s Eve?” Irene cocked her head to the side.

“Well . . .” Sherlock said.

“No, of course you don’t. Not plans that involve leaving your room. Well, that’s settled, you’re coming to my party.”

“Irene, I don’t think . . .” Sherlock began.

“No, I won’t take no for an answer. My housemates and I are throwing a big thing. We’ve even hired a band, someone called Gretchen and the Gremlins?” She lifted a shoulder. “They’re just the bomb in Britain I hear.”

“That does sound interesting.” John said. “We really didn’t have anything specific planned. Did we, Sherlock?” John raised demanding eyebrows Sherlock’s way.

Sherlock could feel the high ground slipping away beneath his feet. “No, I suppose not.”

“Oh Sherlock, you have to let the man out to get some air occasionally.” Irene reached out to pat his shoulder. “Good, that’s settled then. The party starts at nine. Sherlock, you know the way.”

“Thanks so much!” John beamed at her as Sherlock frowned.

After Irene had promised to actually feed the fish and check on a few things, Sherlock and John were able to make their good-byes, escaping the vortex of manic energy that was Irene Adler.

“Wow, you never told me your other intern was . . . ” John waved a hand as they stepped outside, the toy soldiers standing politely aside to let them pass.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I dunno. So _interesting._ I was picturing some boring bloke with his nose in the books . . .” John trailed off as if realizing this was making some unflattering comparisons to Sherlock.

“Irene is a force of nature,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m sorry. I don’t always have time to write longer letters. Things get so busy.” 

“No, I know. I’m sorry, love. It’s fine.” John reached out to take his hand, interlacing their fingers. “So, what’s on for the afternoon?”

“Nothing much,” Sherlock said with a small shrug. He still felt a bit sore from Irene’s dig that he had nothing more planned to do besides keeping John in his room all week. “I thought you might like to see some of the shops? There’s a full train garden on display at a toy shop nearby.”

“Brilliant,” John said, “and maybe we can go by a grocery and pick up some things so we aren’t eating out every meal?”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed.

They spent a gorgeous afternoon ambling about the Wizard District of Heidleberg. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. He’d knew he'd spared precious little time to explore his new city before John's visit, but having John there made everything so much MORE.

The next day, they put on Muggle wear, and slipped into the non-magical side of the city. They walked along the bridges, seeing the sights, and found a cozy pizza place for dinner. John pointed out the “ass fart” signs posted along the road, and burst out laughing. Even though Sherlock explained that “ausfahrt” simply meant “exit,” John continued to snicker. Sherlock had to join in, and soon they were bent double, laughing like fools. A man with a green briefcase frowned their way as he hurried by. They tried manfully to hold in their giggles until he passed, but then John made a rude noise, and they were off again. They laughed so hard they had to collapse on a bench to catch their breath. The terrible thought crossed Sherlock's mind that John would be leaving soon, in mere _days._ He beat the unhappy thought away as fast as he could, and reached out to take John's hand.

 

***

 

“Sherlock, what the HELL?” John stumbled into the en suite, looking shocked.

Sherlock choked on the column of smoke he had attempted to blow unobserved out the loo window. “John . . .” he spluttered, whipping about, completely caught out. DAMN. Things had been going so well.

“How COULD you? Those things are death in a stick.” John glared at the cigarette cupped in Sherlock’s thin hand. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to know.”

“Obviously!” John balled his fists at his side. “GOD! Sherlock, those things are terrible for you.”

“John.” Sherlock swallowed. “I’m sorry.” He stood to lift the seat, flicking the cigarette into the bowl to quickly flush it away. He sank back down onto the closed lid, hunching over to look small. Out of sight, out of mind. He looked hopefully up at John from under his fringe.

John was having none of it. “How could you? How could you start KNOWING how bad smoking is?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, “It’s just that several people at the workshop smoke. It’s a quick way to take a break, and keep going when things are hectic. I just picked it up.” Double Damn. If only he could have lasted the whole week without the stupid things. They’d gotten under his skin. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you.” Sherlock hung his head.

“Oh, love.” John took a step and crushed Sherlock against him. Sherlock buried his face against John’s belly and breathed. He smelled deliciously of warmth and sleep. Sherlock thought he might cry. “No, I’m not disappointed in you. I’m just worried. God, it’s bad enough with Harry’s smoking and drinking . . .” John trailed off.

Sherlock took in a gulping breath. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out just above a whisper.

“Come on.” John tugged him up. “Come back to bed.”

After John used the loo, they snuggled together under the covers. John rubbed circles between his shoulder blades as Sherlock promised to quit the cigarettes. Mumbled promises led to kisses which led to other things. By the time they made it into clothing to go outside, things seemed back on track again. Still, John kept watching him with a heavy look in his eyes now, and Sherlock didn’t like it.

They made it out to the Shrieking Castle at Irene’s suggestion, and John loved it. It seemed the bother of the morning blew away as they paid the fee, and climbed about the old building. They marveled at the collection of ghosts that either drifted out to give them a lecture about the architecture, or jumped out to scare the pants off of them. One little Witch screamed so much when a headless ghost burst out to bowl his head down a hallway, that the family had to carry her quickly outside, her cries a siren receding into the distance.

They enjoyed the custard at the café as Irene had told them they would. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t want to nag. I just want you to be healthy. To be all right.” John reached across the small table to take his hand, and Sherlock stiffened, remembering.

“I know, John. Thank you.” The custard stuck in his throat, and Sherlock ended up leaving half untouched in his cup. He slid it over to John when he asked if Sherlock was going to finish it.

A ghost of woman wearing an old-fashioned bridal gown drifted through the restaurant. “Did you see my dog? My little brown, Poopsie?” She looked frantically about. “Surely you’ve seen him!” she demanded. John caught Sherlock’s eye and they both broke into giggles.

 

***

 

“Are you sure about this, John? We don’t have to go if you’d rather not.” Sherlock eyed the house as it nearly shook with the pounding music blaring from within.

“Come on, don’t be a wet blanket. You’ll be fine.” John tugged at his arm. “I’ve heard too much about this ‘Gretchen and the Gremlins’ band from the lads at school. I have to see them. It’s a moral imperative.”

“Fine.” Sherlock braced himself for the impact of noise as they neared the front door.

Irene’s place was an odd collection of different eras of house all cobbled together. It was overly warm after the chill outside, and the sheer mass of bodies, lights and noise nearly overwhelmed Sherlock as they pushed into the fray. It was of course much larger inside than it looked from the street.

“Darlings, you came!” Irene appeared from the crowd wearing something black and clingy. A glass of something pink bubbled in her hand. “I’m so glad John talked you into it.” Irene leaned over to drop kisses first to Sherlock’s then John’s cheeks. 

“Thanks for inviting us,” John said.

“It’s wonderful to see you again.” Irene smiled. “Make sure you get yourselves something to drink. The bar is that way.” She pointed over the heads of the crowd to the back of the room.

Sherlock peered into the mass of bodies picking out all manner of intriguing individuals, human and non-human alike. Goblins, a vampire, a few veelas, and a half-giant standing head and shoulders above the rest mingled with drinks in their hand. Sherlock even noticed a few people dressed in Muggle clothing sprinkled throughout the crowd. Ah, squibs, of course.

“You know some interesting people, Irene.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“One of my housemates works at the German Ministry of Magic, and another works in Imports. We meet all kinds.” Irene shrugged, glancing around herself.

“Well, this looks brilliant!” John grinned.

“Promise me you’ll enjoy yourself, Sherlock.” Irene reached over to pat his shoulder.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Irene had moved to scoop up John’s arm. “On second thought, YOU promise me you’ll make him stay until midnight at least. Make sure he unwinds a bit.” 

“Of course.” John laughed.

“Ah, I hope you’ll excuse me. I see someone I’ve been wanting to talk to for ages. I’ll catch up with you two party animals later, okay?” She winked as she moved away.

“Later,” Sherlock echoed.

“Drinks?” John turned to him brightly. “I distinctly remember something said about drinks?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock said, and followed John as he carved a path through the chaos of the party with unerring Gryffindor nerve.

After John secured them bottles of ale, they moved about, exploring. They found a number of separate gatherings clustered throughout the rambling house. One group they happened on were playing a game involving bouncing floating bubbles about the room. Sherlock recognized another Wizard from the workshop there, and introduced him to John. The man, Oskar, shook John’s hand warmly before being dragged back into play.

They walked on, finding an indoor pool that several merpeople and a few others lounging on floats were enjoying. “Gentlemen, would you be caring to swim?” A male house elf stepped forward. “We have swimsuits and towels you might borrow.” He gestured to some shelves on the side.

“Erm, maybe later,” John told him politely, moving them along. When they found a room with several games of Wizard Chess being played, John actually agreed to sit with Sherlock and watch awhile, leaving to fetch new drinks as needed. John only insisted they leave when Gretchen and the Gremlins started up, dragged Sherlock back to the noisy front room where a small stage had been conjured up for the band.

The music reverberated somewhat painfully through Sherlock's skull, but he stood listening for John’s sake. John seemed to like it, nodding his head along with the booming bass. Sherlock forced a smile, and allowed himself to be pulled into a dance at John's insistence. Though he wasn’t a particular fan of Gretchen and her cohorts, Sherlock was always a fan of sliding himself against John. _Merlin,_ John was so beautiful as he danced under the flashing lights, grinning and moving his hips in ever-changing patterns.

“Do you want another drink?” Sherlock raised his voice to be heard over the noise.

“Oh, yes, cheers!” John nodded, sweat sticking his fringe to his forehead.

Sherlock worked his way through the moving bodies to reach the bar. He asked for two more bottles of beer, and thanked the woman when he had them in hand.

“Well, hello, Sherlock.” An oily voice drifted over his shoulder.

Sherlock turned to find a stunningly attractive blond man with earrings up each ear, and a matching hoop in his nose leering at him.

“Hello, Galen.” Sherlock nodded smoothly while klaxons of _no, no, no_ set off a loud wail inside his brain.

The man cut quite a figure in his skin-tight leather trousers, a shiny metallic shirt half undone, and a long black coat that swirled around him as if he stood in a light breeze of his own.

“Long time, no see,” Galen said, smiling broadly enough to reveal his two gold teeth.

“Been busy,” Sherlock gritted out.

“Too busy for me?” Galen teased, raising a sculpted eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply.

“Sooo, you don’t need to buy anything today?” The man lifted one side of his long coat just enough to reveal a glimpse of the many bottles and tubes snugged in the pockets within. “I might even have some free samples . . .” 

“Not here, Galen.” Sherlock ground his back teeth together. “I’ll contact you next week.”

Galen laughed and twitched his coat closed again. “Think you can wait that long?” 

“Yes. If you’ll excuse me . . .” Sherlock turned to go. Galen looked as if he might have reached out to stop him, but John chose that moment to appear. He slung one arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him close while liberating one of the bottles from his grip. 

“Wow, that band was great!” John grinned. Sherlock listened more closely, and realized that the live music had stopped to be replaced by a quieter recording. “Thanks, love, for getting . . .”

Sherlock felt the exact moment that John registered Galen’s presence. He tensed, straightening to stand taller.

“Hello. Who’s this, then?”

“John, this is Galen.” Sherlock waved half-heartedly toward the man. When John waited with eyebrows raised, Sherlock added “He’s a supplier for the potions workshop, gets us hard-to-find items.”

"Ah." John's eyebrows remained up.

“Galen, this is my boyfriend, John.”

“That’s right. I’m Galen, the man that gets you the tricky things. Pleasure to meet you.” Galen stuck out a hand. 

John looked like he didn’t want to shake it, but a polite upbringing won out over his baser instincts. He removed his arm from around Sherlock to reluctantly take Galen’s hand. “How do you do?”

Galen’s sleeve slipped down revealing the snake tattoo twining over his wrist. The tattoo moved suddenly, and John dropped his hand in surprise. They all watched as the snake slithered around the man’s arm to disappear back up his coat.

Galen chuckled. “Damn things. Have a life of their own, don’t you know?”

“Well, so nice to see you Galen.” Sherlock cut in. “Don’t let us keep you. I’m sure you’ve got many things to be attending to this evening. Ta-ta.” Sherlock slid an arm around John’s shoulders and turned him, marching him away from Galen as quickly as possible.

“So, what was all that about ? Tall, gold, and creepy?” John asked, not to be thrown off course.

“No one. Just a guy who does business with Herr Moser.” Sherlock lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I hardly know the man. Irene must have invited anyone connected with the workshop.”

“Huh, can’t say I liked him.” John made a face. “Something weird about him, yeah?”

Hmmm. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise as he moved John toward a buffet table. “I’m a bit hungry? How about you?”

“Oh, starving,” John agreed, and allowed himself to be steered toward the platters of food.

Later, when John went off in search of the loo, Sherlock found a back door, and slipped outside to a patio. Someone had spelled it to keep out the cold weather, and just as he’d hoped, a number of people gathered in the warm, chatting, and smoking. It was but a moment’s work to smile charmingly, and beg a fag from a sweet little Witch with mousy brown hair. Sherlock stood to the side and sucked greedily at the smoke, gratefully letting it fill him, washing his thoughts clean at each puff. He was feeling much calmer until someone cleared their throat meaningfully behind him. His shoulders tensed immediately.

“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” John’s voice came out strangled. “Sherlock, you promised.” 

Sherlock took a last drag, and dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under the ball of his shoe as he turned to face him. “John, I’m sorry, but it’s not that easy.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, you could at least TRY.” John’s eyebrows furrowed down to an affronted vee.

Something in Sherlock snapped, and he didn’t feel like apologizing any more. “I AM trying. All I do is try. You can’t just stop cigarettes over night. It doesn’t work that way, JOHN.”

“I don’t care how it works.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “This is your health! This is not on, Sherlock, so not on.” 

Sherlock noticed that the others on the patio had finished up, giving them the side eye as they made their way back to the house.

“John.” Sherlock hissed. “You can’t just order me about. You’re not my father.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t have a father. Just like I don’t have one either because _yours_ bloody well killed _mine_ at the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath, and John froze, realizing what he’d just said. “Oh, God, Sherlock I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

Sherlock turned blindly to go. He had ideas of apparating off somewhere dark and quiet when John’s arms wrapped around him from behind, stopping him. “I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry. God, I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock bowed his head, feeling numb. He let John turn him until they were facing. “Sherlock, God, say something, please.” John’s hands gripped him.

“I’m sorry too.” Sherlock murmured, suddenly coming unstuck, letting his arms rise to encircle John. They pulled each other closer, just breathing, waiting for the world to right.

Someone opened the back door, and they heard people inside calling the countdown to midnight.

“Seven, six, five, four,. . .” The door shut again. 

“Happy New Year, love.” John mumbled against him.

“Happy New Year, John.” Sherlock squeezed him tight.

Later when they had come back inside, and gotten another drink, and it was Sherlock’s time to use the loo, John lingered in the corridor outside, waiting for him to return.

Sherlock used the toilet grateful for the moment’s quiet. He washed his hands when he was done, and splashed cool water over his hot face. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he grabbed a towel off the rack and mopped himself up. Sherlock took a breath as he opened the door, and paused. He could hear Irene’s voice in the hall.

“ . . . you can’t judge him too harshly, you know.” Irene said. “There’s so much pressure to succeed, to do well at the workshop.” He didn’t hear John’s mumbling answer, but Irene popped back in. “He’s the youngest you know, the youngest to ever get an internship at Herr Moser’s.”

“Old lady, are you?” He heard John’s reply that time.

“I’m not doddering just yet, but I’m twenty-one. I’ve been around the garden a few times. It makes a difference . . .”

Sherlock made a good deal of noise opening the door all the way, bustling out.

John looked up, guiltily, caught out. “Hey, love.”

“Oh, there you are.” Irene smiled brightly, stepping forward to sling an arm around him. “I was just telling your lovely boyfriend, what a fantastic job you’re doing at the workshop, better than me, I hate you. Come meet my housemate, Kate, she works at the Ministry of Magic. I don’t think you’ve ever said hello. She probably knows that scary brother of yours. . .”

Sherlock smiled and let Irene’s prattle carry them along back to the party.

***

“I don’t want to go.” John lay draped over Sherlock, his face buried against his neck. They were wrapped so close, it felt like they could almost melt and fuse together with a good deep breath.

“I don’t want you to go.” Sherlock murmured against John’s hair, trying to memorize the scent of him, the feel of John’s skin under his fingertips.

The last few days had flown by. Sherlock had taken John out one morning to an ice skating rink that Irene’s housemate Kate had recommended, and the two of them had bashed about having even more fun than they'd expected. Sherlock had skated before, but it was John’s first time, and he’d wobbled about with spells from Sherlock to keep him upright until he found his feet.

They’d taken a picnic one nice afternoon to a park, and eaten sandwiches on a bench by the river.

“I could leave Hogwarts,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s throat, “just not finish my last year. Not everyone does.”

“John, you want to be a healer.” Sherlock sighed. “You have to finish school for that. I’ll not let you throw that away.”

“Bugger school,” John muttered. “Bugger being a healer.”

“We can do it.” Sherlock said, petting down John’s back. “It’s only a few more months. You can apply to hospital programs here when you graduate.”

John made a sad noise, and buried his face deeper into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

John would be back at school by Sherlock’s birthday proper, so they’d made one day serve as a stand-in birthday before he left. John had sneaked out early to buy tea and pastries at Bertha’s and woken Sherlock with breakfast in bed. They’d spent the whole day doing whatever took Sherlock’s fancy, having ice creams for lunch, and spending the afternoon in the Museum of Magic before washing up at an American-style restaurant that sold hamburgers and chips in gravy for dinner. John had given him some small gifts, silly things he’d picked up in shops over the week, some scented soaps, a wooden frog with a bobble head, a bag of toffees that let you whistle like a bird after you’d eaten them. Tomorrow morning, John had to catch a portkey back to London, and the two of them felt completely unprepared.

“I’ll miss you,” Sherlock whispered.

“I’ll bloody well be _gutted_ missing you,” John replied.

They lay on Sherlock’s bed just listening to the clanks and groans of the pipes in the walls, and the creaks of the ceiling as someone walked in the flat above. Occasionally one of the silver bells still on the walls joined in, giving a half-hearted shiver before falling silent again. Sherlock thought about sending the holiday decorations away, but he didn’t have the heart. Not until after John left.

“You’d hate it here,” Sherlock said. “This place is hardly big enough for one let alone two.”

“You could get a bigger place. You don’t have to wait until I come in the summer, you know.” John propped himself up to better see Sherlock’s face. “Why don’t you find a nicer flat?”

“It’s hardly worth it with just me.” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “Besides, I’m at the workshop so much, all I do is sleep here.”

“Okay,” John said, tracing a finger along Sherlock’s cheekbone. “God, you’re so beautiful. I’ll miss seeing your face.”

“John, I’ll miss your everything, so much. I’ll try to do better with the smoking. There are some potions that could help with quitting . . .”

“Yeah, all right, I trust you, love.” John smiled so sadly, Sherlock had to wrap his arms around him, holding him close. 

“John . . .”

“I love you, sweetheart, my good kitty.” John dropped kisses wherever he could reach.

“I love you too. More than anything.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he pulled John even closer.

"Promise me you'll visit soon," John said. The bed shook, trembling slightly as the suitcase shifted restlessly underneath. "Ha." John huffed out. "See, even the luggage wants you to come."

"I promise, John," Sherlock said. "I'll come as soon as I can. Maybe even sooner." 

"I can't wait." John leaned up to press his lips to Sherlock's forehead.

***

German: "Sherlock! Es ist schön dich zu sehen. Und wer ist das, ein Freund?"  
English: Sherlock, it's good to see you, but who is this, a friend?

German: "Das ist mein Schatz, John. Er ist gerade aus Großbritannien angekommen."  
English: "This is my treasure, John. He just arrived from Great Britain."

German: Was darf es heute sein, für dich und deinen hübschen, jungen Mann?"  
English: "What can I get for you today, for you and your pretty young man?"

German: krapfen  
English: doughnut

German: Schneeball  
English: snowball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your kind comments and kudos are the breeze beneath my broomstick keeping me afloat! All are very much appreciated! :)
> 
> ****  
> I think about apparating - J.K.R. has said that it's simply bad manners to appear inside someone's home, but I have a head canon for this story that most dwellings have anti-apparating spells on them and people HAVE to go outside to use that magic.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John manages to swing a surprise trip to Germany. Sadly, things don't turn out quite as he'd hoped!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to **otp221b** for her super-fast beta services. All the love!!!
> 
> Also, hugs and kisses to **succubus** for her lovely translations of my terrible Google-created German into something actual people might actually say!

***

A whistle blew as the engine of the Hogwarts Express chugged to life. John burst through the magical barrier just in time to see it pulling away from the platform as parents waved good-bye. John quickly apparated to the train steps, barely making it onboard before it cleared the station. He’d put off leaving Sherlock until the last possible moment. If he closed his eyes, he could still see him standing there at the portkey gate, his clear blue gaze fixed on John through the departure countdown. Even then, John had almost said _sod it,_ and dropped his hand from the length of rope to stay. The portkey had activated before he could make up his mind though, and he’d been swept away, back to London, and back toward school as planned.

John sighed, pushing his way through the corridor of the carriage to look for his friends. Students struggled to find seats dragging their cases and bags behind. He heard an explosion and a burst of laughter up ahead on the left. John smiled, and headed that way.

“JOHN!”

“John, over here!”

“Johnny, my good man!”

His mates hailed him from a compartment, and John plopped gratefully into the open seat next to Teddy.

“Hullo, everyone!” John smiled around.

“Watson. We thought you missed the train!” Teddy grinned.

“I almost did,” John confessed, sticking his bag under his seat. “There was a line for the floo network at the portkey station.”

“How was your trip? How was Sherlock?” Victoire craned her head around Teddy to beam at him. John couldn’t help noticing the two were holding hands, their fingers threaded together.

John swallowed. “Yeah, good. We had a great time, and Sherlock is fine. A bit overworked, but good.”

“Owen broke up.” Victoire nodded to the boy sat across the aisle.

“Oh, Owen, no?” John’s eyebrows shot skyward.

“Yeah. Eileen and me. It just didn’t work out.” Owen shrugged a shoulder glumly. “What can I say? The whole ‘don’t have a mobile or email’ thing was rough. Plus she loved _Abba._ ” Owen gave a mock shudder. “What can you do?”

“Damn. That’s rough, mate,” John said.

“Who’s Abba?” Dom asked.

“You don’t want to know.” John smiled. “Speaking of bands . . . you’ll never guess who I saw in Heidleberg, at a house party?”

“Who?” Tom asked.

“Gretchen and the Gremlins.” John sat back, folding his arms smugly over his chest.

“You lucky bastard!” Tom cried. “They’re brilliant, right?”

“Yeah, they were good. I really enjoyed them,” John said. “Especially the half-troll on the drums. He was excellent!”

“Well,” Dom said, brandishing a gold box from beside him. “That calls for a celebration. Care for a chocolate?”

“Thanks,” John said, reaching forward.

“NO . . .” Owen, Teddy, and Vic all started at once.

John lifted the lid and an explosion of glitter blasted over the compartment.

“DOM!” Victoire cried, shaking out the front of her robe. “Can you PLEASE put that away?”

Tom and Dom laughed so hard, they nearly fell out of their seats.

“Idiots,” John said fondly, bending over and running a hand through his hair to knock the stuff loose.

***

“John, if you wouldn’t mind staying a moment after class?” Professor Lestrade stood by John’s elbow, watching John’s progress on his potion.

“Of course, professor,” John said, giving his brew another stir.

“Mind if I take a peek?” Lestrade motioned toward his cauldron.

“No, of course not, sir,” John said.

Lestrade leaned in closer for a better look before taking a cautious sniff. “Hmm, not bad. Needs a bit more dandelion leaves though I think.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” John said.

Alastaire watched the whole exchange avidly from across the room. He gave John a dark look as the professor moved on, stirring his own potion more forcefully. John sighed. Alastaire seemed to have come back from holidays with a renewed resolve to best John in Potions class. _Tosser,_ John thought as he searched through his supplies for more dandelion.

“What’s that about?” Teddy whispered.

“Dunno.” John shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out in a bit.”

 

“John.” Lestrade waved him over as the rest of the class filed out the door after the bell had rung.

“Yes, sir?” John settled the strap of his book bag over his shoulder as he took a place by the teacher’s desk.

“John.” Lestrade clasped his hands in front of him leaning in to regard him for a moment. “I was contacted recently by St. Mungo’s hospital. They have a scholarship for a spot in their training program, completely paid, for a promising student. I wanted to let you know I put your name in for consideration.”

“Oh, that was kind of you, professor,” John said, surprised.

“Not at all.” Lestrade smiled. “I knew you’d chosen ‘healer’ for your career goals, and you’re one of the best in my class. Yours was the first name that came to mind.”

“Well, I appreciate it, sir, but I had plans to move to Germany after graduation. Sherlock is already there . . .”

“Ah.” Lestrade furrowed his brow. “That’s true, but he’s only got one more year there as I understand. John, you can always refuse this scholarship if you’re chosen and don’t want it, but think about it. You’d do well at Mungo’s. You’ve got a good way about you.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, sir.”

“Naw, you’re good.” Lestrade watched him carefully. “John, you have to think about your future too. There’s no reason Sherlock can’t move to London after his internship is over. I hate to see the UK lose your talents. Both of your talents actually.” 

John smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Not at all. Well, don’t let me keep you, son. I know you've another class to attend.” Lestrade waved him toward the door. 

“Alright, yeah. Thank you again, sir.” John hurried off, his thoughts spinning like a whirlwind.

***

The first week back from his visit proved the worst. John kept turning to say something to Sherlock before he remembered he wasn’t there. Nights stretched out again, and John struggled to fall asleep without Sherlock beside him. They stepped up their letter writing to once a day again, and gradually John got used to the new normal - Sherlock so far away.

John grinned when the Owl Post arrived at breakfast, dropping his daily tightly-wrapped scroll by his plate.

John untied the cord around the paper to spread it out. “Oh, wow,” he muttered as he scanned through the lines.

“How’s things in Germany?” Teddy asked over the table.

“Good. It looks like Sherlock’s gotten a better flat. I told him he should though he didn’t think it was worth the bother. I wonder if his brother . . .” John frowned. “Ah yes, the _supercilious git’s_ paying for it, that would be Mycroft.”

“I wouldn’t mind if my brother paid for my flat.” Dom grinned at Tom.

“Only if I win the lottery.” Tom snorted.

“Yeah, well, your brother isn’t Mycroft Holmes,” John said ominously. “He can be right scary when he wants to be. He’s not the sort you like to owe favours to.”

“I’ve got two uncles that work at the ministry, Victoire added, reaching for the toast. “They say he’s something alright. No one wants to get on his bad side.” She bit into a triangle with a snap.

“Owen, are you going to eat that poor bastard or just worry it to death?” Teddy nudged Owen beside him. The boy stared off into space while half-heartedly pushing a sausage through the beans on his plate.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Owen snapped to, finally forking up a bite.

“Come on, can’t have you losing too much weight,” Teddy warned. “A keeper’s got to have a little bulk on him.”

“Hey,” Victoire said brightly. “I’ve been working on my weather protection spell. Why don’t we try a Quidditch practice this afternoon after classes?”

All eyes swiveled to the great hall’s long windows. The wind raged loudly, blowing the falling snow into angry, swirling eddies beyond the thick panes of glass.

“Erm, Victoire? No offense,” John said, “but even you couldn’t hold off a blizzard.”

“No help for it then. Wizard tag,” Teddy said.

“Brilliant!” Tom said.

“Wizard tag.” Victoire and Dom both nodded.

“But the weather.” John gestured toward the windows again.

“We’ll try the room.” Teddy nodded. “After dinner. Come on, Owen needs a bit of fun.”

“Cheers, mate.” Owen managed a small smile.

“All right, I could stand a little fun, myself,” John agreed.

That evening, they made their way quietly by ones and twos from the common room, meeting up at the seventh floor corridor by the tapestry of Barnabas the barmy teaching trolls ballet. The door to the Room of Requirement wouldn’t appear in the wall across from them until someone’s compelling need brought it into existence.

“Right then. Let me,” Teddy said cracking his knuckles. “I think I can come up with a good room.”

“No offense, mate,” Tom said, “but Dom and I were Wizard Tag finalists at the last year’s summer competition. I think we can call up the best room.”

“Have at it.” Teddy spread his arms magnanimously.

The twins conferred a moment, then Dom waited while Tom walked up and down the hallway muttering “Brighthalls tag arena, I need Brighthalls tag arena . . .”

A wooden door set into the wall across from the group shimmered into existence on Tom’s third pass. Everyone eagerly filed into the new room and gasped. The interior had transformed into some sort of mad cave with stairways, terraces, and a multitude of passageways built every which way into the stone.

“Brilliant!” Owen proclaimed.

“Oh, this is nice,” Victoire agreed.

“Okay Tom and Dom are NOT allowed to be on the same team,” John said watching the two of them, heads together, already obviously deep into scheming.

“Fair enough, mate.” Dom grinned.

They divided up, charming their school robes to match their team colour - Tom, Teddy, and Owen for the red team, and Dom, Victoire and John on the gold. 

Tom muttered a few words as he waved his wand, and some large glowing words appeared hanging in the air: “Red: 0, Gold: 0.”

“The spell is _Pingere,_ ” Teddy reminded everyone as they all readied their wands before setting off.

John had played laser tag once with some friends in primary school, and he found the game very similar, but easier without the bulky equipment. Dom knew the layout of the room, and whispered quick directions, sending Victoire and John into side passages to creep up on the other team.

Victoire gave a battle cry as she flicked her wand, sending a splash of gold paint across Owen’s backside. She swore when Tom shot a line of red across her middle before dashing off again. The large glowing scoreboard changed neatly to read “Red: 1, Gold: 1.”

John chuckled and crab walked behind a low wall, peeking out to fling bursts of gold paint after Teddy, but the boy ducked down a passageway out of reach. Owen popped out of another tunnel above, and shot a blob of red paint over John’s chest before he could move. 

“All right, wankers, this is ON,” John growled, launching himself after Owen.

The space soon filled with slashes and splashes of gold and red, the players similarly decorated as they dashed about flinging magical paint at each other. The score was up “Red: 10, Gold: 8” when Victoire sent a splash of gold paint that knocked Teddy sideways. He cried out as he lost his balance, falling down some steps to land with a thud.

“Oh, baby, are you alright?” Victoire dropped the game in an instant, rushing down to join Teddy who now sat rubbing an ankle.

“Oh yeah, it’s fine.” John heard his reply, before Victoire launched herself at Teddy, the two of them soon kissing for all they were worth, smearing paint everywhere.

Dom caught Tom with an impressive blast of gold across the back of his head, bringing the score even 10 to 10. They decided that was game over then, as fully one third of the players were wrapped together, snogging heatedly, and ignoring everyone else.

“Come on, lovebirds,” John called. “We need to clean up and get back to the dorms. It’s almost curfew.”

“Oh, sorry, John,” Victoire said beaking off, wiping paint gone an orangey colour off her cheek.

“What’s the score?” Teddy asked somewhat breathlessly.

“Everybody wins.” John laughed.

“I wish Sherlock were still here. He could always get the house elves to fetch us pitchers of juice in the middle of the night,” Tom said as they made their way back to the common room.

“Maybe John . . .” Dom started.

“Nope, sorry bruv. That was Sherlock.” John waved him off. “The elves don’t owe me anything.” Just the mention of Sherlock’s name put a pang through his chest. John wished with all his heart that Sherlock could have joined in their game. Maybe they could find a Wizard tag place in Germany next time he visited.

“Thanks guys, that was great.” Owen clapped John on the shoulder. “Just what I needed.”

“Yeah, maybe we can do it again next week.” John grinned. “I owe you one, right between the eyes, ya bastard.”

***

John struggled with an armload of books and scrolls on the venerable study and art of healing when he ran into Victoire studying in the library. 

She waved him over to join her. “Wow, look at you John!" Vic whispered as he unloaded his stash across the table. "Thinking of joining Ravenclaw, are you?” 

John smiled wryly. “I know. I used to laugh at Sherlock with all his books. If only I’d known. Year Seven is hard! Honestly you can’t start soon enough getting ready for the NEWTs.”

“How is Sherlock?” Victoire tilted her head slightly.

“He’s good. Really busy though. We keep hoping he’ll be able to get a weekend away and come to Hogsmeade, but things keep being mad busy for him.” John felt wistful just thinking about it.

“John, there was something I wanted to talk to you about . . . without Teddy around.” Victoire looked serious, a crease forming between her eyebrows as she leaned in.

“Yeah?” John felt himself leaning in to match her.

“I was thinking about me and Teddy. I mean we just started going out and he’s graduating at the end of this year. I’ve got two whole years until I graduate.” Vic cleared her throat. “I just keep wondering how we’ll manage.”

“That is rough.” John nodded. “Sherlock and I only have the one and it’s already hell.” Victoire winced at that.

“Oh, Vic, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I miss him of course, but you get used to it. There’s letters and holidays. We were really hoping he’d be free last weekend . . .” John trailed off realizing he wasn’t making a very good case. “It’s okay, we have Easter Break coming.”

“Shhhh.” The librarian stalked past giving them an annoyed look.

“Aren’t you worried though?” Victoire leaned closer to whisper lower.

“Worried?”

“Well, about you and Sherlock while you’re at school? I mean Teddy’s sort of famous being the godson of Harry Potter and all. He’ll start with the Aurors’ office next fall, meeting all kinds of interesting new people . . . I just worry . . .”

“Vic, stop right there. You’re plenty interesting. Teddy’s a good bloke, but he’s an arse. He’s lucky to have you.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” 

“It’s the truth,” John said as loudly as he dared. “Teddy would be a fool ten times over to look at anyone else. How could he, you’re gorgeous.”

Victoire flushed slightly. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m being silly. I just . . . how do you manage staying close when you’re so far apart?”

John thought back to last Monday when the lads had caught him in his red pants trying to get his clothes on before anyone noticed. 

“Bit posh for Monday, eh, John?” Tom had teased him. 

“OOooh, sexy,” Owen called over.

John had gone nearly as red as his underwear. “Oh shut it, you berks. Not that it’s any of your business but it’s for Sherlock. We said we’d both wear special pants on Mondays.” 

It was Teddy who had shushed everyone. “Now, enough you lot. Nothing to see here. Sort your own knickers, please.” 

John cleared his throat looking at Victoire’s expectant expression. He wasn’t about to go into the red pants again. “Well, you make plans together.” He shrugged. “You make it work.”

Victoire nodded looking thoughtful.

“Fifteen minutes.” A voice floated out across the room over their heads. “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes, please tidy your work . . .”

“Thanks, John.” Victoire reached out to pat his arm.

“Any time.” John smiled wishing he’d had more to give. It was hard, what could he say? He missed Sherlock sometimes so much it hurt.

***

John almost ran into a large floating cartoon heart hovering in the air, and cursed under his breath. He moved to the side, and the heart continued wobbling down the hall, obviously on its way to the intended recipient. 

John was sick to death of Valentine's day and it was still three days away. It fell on a Saturday this year, and everyone coupled seemed to be scrambling to make special plans. Who invented the stupid holiday in the first place? Honestly it was simply horrible. You either felt blackmailed into giving your significant other something silly, or you were alone and felt like complete shite watching everyone else fawn over the nonsense. Of course that didn’t stop John from spending the weekend before digging through the cards at a shop in Hogsmeade to find something to send to Sherlock. He’d finally settled on a card with a beach scene at night on the front. The continuous rolling motion of the waves was soothing, and the silhouette of the pair cuddling on the beach was ambiguous enough that it didn’t scream het couple. 

They’d tried again to make plans to get together, but again, Sherlock’s work had been too busy to break away, and John didn’t have the money to travel all the way to Germany to see Sherlock for just a few hours. He had plans to spend Easter Break in Germany, but that was still months away. John sighed and continued on his prefect’s rounds. Only one more hour until he could knock off. He hoped he wouldn’t find anyone snogging behind the tapestry in the corridor near the Ravenclaw tower. It had been a favourite spot of his and Sherlock’s.

***

“So we’re going into Hogsmeade to get some Fire ale to sneak back into school, and then we’re going to hold an extreme Wizard chess tournament to the death!” John grinned. “Every piece you lose, you take a shot.”

“Anti-Valentine's day celebration.” Owen explained to the usual crew gathered at the Gryffindor table for dinner. “Who’s in?”

“Sorry, mates,” Teddy said glancing at Victoire. “We’ve plans for Valentine's. Tea at Madam Puddifoot’s, and then some play . . .”

“That’s right, _Much Ado about Everything_. We were lucky to get tickets.” Victoire reached out to squeeze his arm.

“Right, I reckoned you two were busy, but Tom, Dom? What do you say?” John turned toward the twins.

“Sorry, we’ve plans too,” Tom said scooping up a bite of mash.

“WHAT? You two never have plans.” John’s eyebrows shot up.

“Ta for that.” Tom looked uncomfortable. Dom outright blushed.

“We got asked out to the Magic Mushroom,” Dom managed.

“By who?” Owen’s eyebrows also hovered near his hairline.

“Samantha in my Muggle Studies class asked me, and her friend, Noelle, said she’d put up with Tom.”

“Oi.” Tom pushed Dom none too lightly, and Dom shoved him back.

“Well, Owen, my good man.” John sighed. “I guess it’s just you and me. How about we buy each other a pint or two at the Hog’s Head?” It was a less picturesque pub in Hogsmeade and almost certainly to be free of decorative hearts and celebrating couples.

“You’re on,” Owen said, slapping him on the back.

***

Saturday dawned a soggy mess. Freezing rain that started in the morning only added to the slushy, dirty snow already over the ground. By afternoon though, it shifted to true snow and added a pretty white layer to cover the muck underneath. The couples going out for the day bundled up warmly and headed out, but John and Owen decided to skip the walk into Hogsmeade for the pub. They ended up playing sober Wizard chess by the fire in the common room all afternoon instead.

Sherlock hadn’t sent a card, but John had gotten another short letter by Owl Post that morning.

_“Dear John,_  
_Thanks for the card. Sorry I didn’t make it out to the shops to get you anything. Forced sentiment created from manufactured holidays is never a favourite of mine, but know that you are my heart._  
_I miss you terribly,_  
_SH.”_

John had carried the letter around in his pocket all day. It helped when dinner in the Great Hall featured heart-shaped biscuits and a big pink trifle for pudding.

Tom and Dom returned in time for a more rousing card game of Exploding Snap in the evening, and John felt in better spirits when Victoire and Teddy finally bustled in smiling, and pink-cheeked from the cold.

“How was the play?” John asked.

“Oh, loads of fun.” Teddy rolled his eyes. “Still the company was good.”

“The play was good. I enjoyed it,” Victoire said, nudging him, “but more importantly, we’ve good news.” 

“What good news?” Owen asked.

“They were giving out door prizes at Madame Puddifoot’s and I won.” Victoire worked an envelope out of her pocket.

“And what was this glorious prize?” Tom asked.

Victoire pulled out a purple ticket and brandished it triumphantly before her. “A free round-trip portkey ticket to anywhere in the world.”

“Brilliant,” Owen said.

“Oooh, fancy that,” Dom said. “You could go see Fiji or something.”

“No, I don’t really need to go anywhere,” Victoire said. “I wanted to give it to you, John.” She stepped forward, pushing it into John’s hands.

“Oh, Vic, this is too much, I can’t take . . .”

“It’s to go see Sherlock,” she insisted.

“Yeah, come one, mate, we’re tired of your sad mug. Go see your boyfriend already,” Teddy chimed in.

“Oh.” John felt the breath catch in his throat. “Thanks, Vic. Really.”

“What are friends for?” Victoire smiled, and leaned in to drop a kiss to John’s cheek.

***

 

John debated letting Sherlock know he was coming. In the end, the decided to leave it as a glorious surprise. He knew Sherlock would probably have to work part of his visit, but any time together was better than nothing. John felt ready to burst by the time classes ended on Friday, and he could finally get away. He’d gotten permission from Professor Pinworthy to leave school, and traded prefect duties to have the weekend free and clear. John had only a sketchy idea where Sherlock’s new flat was, but he had an address, and that was good enough to be going on with. John could hardly believe it, but it looked like Operation Sherlock was actually happening!

***

John hitched his rucksack higher as he walked through the slight drizzle, avoiding a large puddle to cross the cobblestone street. One of the workers at the portkey station had given John directions to Sherlock’s new place, and he’d managed to find it without getting too lost. Sherlock had said he lived in a white four-story building of flats, and John’s heart skipped a beat when it came into view.

The front door was locked. It looked as if it needed a spell to enter, but John slipped in as someone was coming out. _“Danke,”_ John said to the tall Witch holding the door. She nodded and babbled something in German as she walked on.

John knew Sherlock’s flat number, 2B, and made his way up to the first floor taking the steps two at a time. He stopped when he found the door with the right brass numbers affixed to the front. Taking a deep breath, John knocked. After a minute of waiting, he knocked again, praying that Sherlock wasn’t out. He could certainly try the workshop if he wasn’t at home, but he hoped . . .

The heartstone on John’s bracelet flared as footsteps, then a muffled voice came from inside. _“Warte kurz, ich komme gleich.”_

John could hardly contain his grin when the door finally opened to Sherlock’s gorgeous face. “Surprise!” he cried.

“JOHN.” Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide. He looked delightfully rumpled, shirt only half buttoned, his curls in a riot around his head. He ran a hand back through his hair to tame the mess somewhat. John could see the heartstone on his bracelet glowing brightly in reply to his own. 

“MERLIN, What are you doing here?” Sherlock appeared quite gobsmacked.

“Got a free portkey ticket. Thought I’d surprise you,” John said.

“This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you at all,” Sherlock said, collecting himself a bit to step forward, half in, half out of the door. “It’s just . . . I’m sorry, the place is such a mess . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the room inside.

“Oh, God, I don’t care about that. Hello, you.” John reached up and slipped a hand around Sherlock’s nape, urging Sherlock’s mouth down to his own.

Sherlock tensed for a moment before sinking into the kiss. A noise left John’s throat. It was heaven to touch Sherlock, finally, finally, but when John licked between the seam of his lips, he tasted cigarette. John couldn’t help recoiling.

“Sherlock. Are you smoking again?” John had only thought to rib him, but it came out harsher than he’d meant, the words falling between them.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock grimaced. “I _am_ trying to quit.”

“Oh, look, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” John huffed a sigh. He hadn’t travelled all this way just to come scold Sherlock. He tried another smile. “Come on, you big berk, let me in, my feet are soaked.”

Sherlock seemed rooted in place, but John pushed past him through the small foyer into the sitting room to drop his rucksack, and stopped. That strange bloke from Irene’s party, Galen, sat sprawled over Sherlock’s sofa, a cigarette dangling from one hand. John straightened, too surprised to say anything for a moment. Galen looked much the same from the last time John had run into him, the rings in his ears and nose, the too-tight leather trousers, the flashy shirt open at the throat. One change was the absence of his long dark coat though that lay tossed over the back of a nearby chair. Galen watched John as he brought his cigarette to his mouth, the tip burning bright at his inhale. John heard the sound of the front door banging closed before Sherlock came in to stand between them.

“John, you might remember, Galen.” Sherlock gestured toward the smarmy creature. “Galen, this is . . . John.” 

The man blew out a perfect smoke ring before speaking. “Ah, yes, the boyfriend.” He leaned forward to extend his free hand. _“Schön dich wieder zu sehen.”_

“What?” John made no move to take the man’s hand. “What did he say?” John glanced back at Sherlock. 

_“Also freust du dich nicht mich wieder zu sehen. Wie schmerzhaft.”_ An amused smile tipped up the side of Galen’s mouth as he dropped his hand.

“John doesn’t speak German,” Sherlock explained tersely.

John narrowed his eyes at Galen, somewhat mesmerized at the man’s moving tattoos. The snake one he’d seen already stayed twisted around his wrist, but one he hadn’t noticed before, a long red dragon, undulated around his throat. It flicked its forked tongue at John before winding itself sinuously around Galen’s neck leaving only its tail peeking out over his shoulder.

“What’s he doing here?” John asked Sherlock, jerking his chin toward the man, refusing to address him directly.

“I told you, Galen is a supplier of hard-to-get items.” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “I sometimes need ingredients for my own experiments. Galen supplies.”

“Is that so?” John almost growled.

“Yes, but he was just leaving. Weren’t you, Galen?”

“Well, I certainly won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” The man flashed a smile full of teeth. He took a last pull from his cigarette, and leaned over to grind it out in a bowl on the end table. John could see that much to his dismay, it held a whole collection of dog ends.

Galen stood to pull his coat on. _"Willst du das Zeug nun noch?"_ He muttered to Sherlock.

 _"Nicht jetzt. Ich melde mich später bei dir.”_ Sherlock replied briskly.

 _"Ich freue mich darauf. Darauf und auf den vollen Betrag, mein Hübscher.”_ Galen said, adjusting the collar of this coat to pop up to his ears.

 _Vain git,_ John thought, eager to see the last of the man. He couldn’t help noticing that he and Sherlock were of a height, a matched set of men with beautiful cheekbones, one dark, and one blond.

“Sherlock, John.” Galen nodded in turn to the both of them.

“Galen,” John gritted out.

“Good-bye, Galen.” Sherlock moved to open the door.

 _"Schönen guten Abend, die Herren."_ Galen pretended to lift a hat their way before sweeping out in a dramatic swirl of coat tails.

As soon as the door closed, John nearly exploded. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing hanging out with scum like that?”

“John, don’t start, please, I haven’t seen in you weeks. Let’s not fight over something as asinine as Galen. He’s not worth it.”

“No, you’re right.” John raked a hand back through his hair. “I’m sorry. God. Sherlock, just come here.”

“John.” Sherlock fell into his arms.

Sherlock still smelled a bit like an ashtray, and he still felt too thin, but holding him was like coming home. They hung on to each other with eyes closed, until John’s mouth found Sherlock’s and then they did their best to near consume each other for the next few minutes.

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked when he pulled away, his eyes shining.

“Starving.” John said.

“I don’t have anything here, we’ll have to go out.” 

Sherlock gave John a quick tour of his new flat before they left to forage for sustenance. It had the sitting room John had seen, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms with a loo down the hall. Sherlock shared with a flatmate named Kurt who seemed to be out at the moment.

“This is good, a lot bigger than your last flat.” John nodded, moving his rucksack to Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock shrugged. “The best Mycroft’s money can buy. Still, I’m not here all that often.”

Sherlock led them outside to a nearby Wizard café. The place was overly bright after the dark of the street, and John blinked trying to adjust his vision. Sherlock sat them at a booth, slumping down over a whole bench as he slung his legs lengthwise. John slid into the other side, glancing about. Signs flashing the specials in German hung about the bright yellow walls. A crowd of young Witches sat a few tables away, laughing uproariously about something, speaking together in choppy syllables that meant nothing to him. He picked up one of the menus on the table, and of course, couldn’t read a word of it. John felt unmoored, slightly adrift. He glanced over at Sherlock again. He sat studying his menu as he nibbled at the side of a nail.

“They have a club sandwich here you’d probably like,” Sherlock said.

“All right.” John nodded.

Sherlock was the only familiar thing in the room, but even he seemed changed, even paler than usual in the flat light of the room. John suddenly had the oddest feeling that he was standing outside his life and looking in from some other place. The strange feeling only intensified when the waitress came to ask what they wanted in a quick garble.

_"Guten Abend, was kann ich Ihnen bringen?"_

Sherlock ordered for them both, and John couldn’t follow a bit of the rapid fire exchange. 

“You want chips not crisps with your sandwich, right?” Sherlock stopped to ask. John nodded, watching as Sherlock turned back to continue the flow of unintelligible words. It was weird. John had heard Sherlock speak in other languages before, but it had always seemed exotic and sexy. Now it just felt foreign, another odd thing in this whole odd visit. The woman smiled, and left with their orders.

Sherlock ran his long fingers over a crack on the side of the table, worrying at it. “John, I’m sorry about Galen.” His pale eyes flicked John’s way. “He’s nobody, really.”

“Okay,” John said and blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He cast about for a neutral topic of conversation, and settled for asking Sherlock how things were going at work. Sherlock finally uncoiled, dropping his legs to the floor to face John, and told a funny story about a famous Wizard who had stopped by the workshop last week. Then he launched off on a technical talk about some potion he was working on, and John found he couldn’t follow half of it. When Sherlock finally paused and asked John how things were at school, it seemed silly to talk about things like Quidditch, getting ready for exams, and house points.

In the end, John just shrugged. “Good. Things are good,” he said.

The sandwich and chips the waitress brought John were fine, but he found that his appetite had left him. He only managed to eat half, and Sherlock hardly touched the bowl of soup he’d ordered. He flashed John a strange look when the bill came. “John, I’m a bit short at the moment, do you have any money on you?”

“Yeah, sure.” John dug out his purse to count out some of the sickles he had there.

On their walk home, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette on auto pilot, lighting it with a muttered spell. He took a drag, exhaling the smoke with a sigh. It was only when he glanced over at John that he remembered himself, and froze.

John shook his head. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s your life.” He sighed. He didn’t have it in him to start a fight.

“Sorry.” Sherlock muttered, taking a few hasty puffs before dropping the fag into a storm drain.

They walked the rest of the way back to Sherlock’s flat, side by side, but not touching. John felt almost grateful for the diversion when they returned to find the flatmate, Kurt, home reading a book in the sitting room. Kurt turned out to be a short, dark-haired Wizard who worked as a clerk at a nearby shop. He spoke perfect English and seemed like a nice-enough bloke. John enjoyed exchanging pleasantries before retreating to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Sherlock turned on a small lamp by the bed, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Silently they stripped down to tee shirts and pants, and crawled under Sherlock’s duvet to the bed that was thankfully big enough for two. Sherlock turned out the light, and they lay side by side like fish on ice at the grocer’s until John reached out and stroked a hand down Sherlock’s side. He could see both of their heartstone bracelets glowing in the dark like fireflies. 

Finally, whatever barrier had sprung up between them cracked open, and they crawled onto each other, Sherlock melting down into John as he kissed his warm mouth. They made love passionately like electricity crackled over them, and John fell asleep with Sherlock wound around him, his breath warm on John’s neck, and his curls tucked under his chin. Something woke him in the night though. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the bed, his figure silhouetted by a dim light outside.

“Love, what is it?” John asked groggily, lifting his head.

“Nothing, John. Go back to sleep.” The flat voice came from the dark.

“Well, it’s obviously something,” John insisted, rubbing at his eyes, trying to wake up. 

“John, I was kissing Galen when you showed up tonight. I’m sorry.” 

“What?” John said pushing up to one elbow, feeling like he was underwater. He blinked stupidly, waiting for his brain to catch up. “What the hell, Sherlock?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but I don’t understand. What . . . WHY?” 

“Because I’m an idiot,” Sherlock spat out, and dashed from the room.

John struggled out from under the covers to follow, the beat of his heart a pulse in his ears. He found the door to the toilet closed when he reached it, the sound of the shower starting up inside. John tried the handle. It was locked. 

“Sherlock. SHERLOCK let me in.” John banged on the door to no answer. John jiggled the knob. Nothing. He scrubbed a hand over his face, willing his blood pressure to settle. John considered grabbing his wand and blasting the bloody door off its hinges, but that wouldn’t be fair to Sherlock’s flatmate. John leaned his forehead against the smooth wood. After taking a deep breath, he moved back to the bed to wait for Sherlock’s return. John lay down, feeling alternately hot and cold as Sherlock’s words replayed in his mind. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he blinked his eyes open next, full morning light streamed in from the window. 

John groaned. The night before felt like a nightmare, like something horrid he’d only dreamed about. When he rolled over though, the other side of the bed was empty and cold.

Oh God. It was real.

John got up, pulling on Sherlock’s dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and made a lap around the flat. No Sherlock. John came back to dig out some fresh clothes, and after a quick shower, returned to the sitting room dressed for the day. He found Sherlock’s flatmate Kurt up and at the table reading the paper over eggs and toast.

“Oh, good morning. Have you seen Sherlock around then?” John asked lightly.

“No. Sherlock, he only eats out though, you know?” Kurt lifted a shoulder. “Would you like some eggs?” he asked politely.

“No, thanks, I’ll just wait for Sherlock to get back.” John retreated to the bedroom. He made the bed and settled on top of the covers to read a book he pulled off Sherlock’s shelf. When John’s stomach rumbled loudly, he abandoned the book, deciding to go out.

Kurt lay on his back on the sitting room floor doing some kind of exercises.

“Oh sorry, don’t let me bother you,” John said, moving past him. “I’m just going out. If Sherlock come back before I do, can you let him know I was looking for him?”

“Yes, of course, John,” Kurt said, half sitting up.

John scooted to the front door as fast as he could. His first thought was Herr Moser’s. Having been there before gave him a picture, and he managed to apparate outside the front of the shop. The place was busy on a Saturday morning, and a bell tinkled loudly as he pushed through the door. John moved past the customers browsing the potions and lotions to reach the counter.

A middle-aged Wizard greeted him, but John just shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak German. I’m looking for Sherlock. I’m a friend of his. Do you know if he’s here today?” 

“One moment.” The man said in English, and disappeared into the back. He returned a few minutes later shaking his head. “I’m sorry. Sherlock sent a note that he is sick today. Maybe check back Monday? We are closed tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” John felt his heart sink. He started to turn away when he recognized Irene coming through the door carrying a box of soaps. He almost called to her, but the idea of talking to someone about Sherlock right then made him feel physically ill. He quickly made his way outside before she could spot him.

John walked for quite some time, simply following his feet. He stopped to buy what looked like a sausage roll and a cup of coffee from a street vendor, hardly tasting either. The sounds of people speaking in a foreign language rolled over him as he moved along. He thought about mustering up the energy to create a translation spell, but it hardly seemed worth it. John kept hoping the heartstone on his bracelet might light up letting him know Sherlock was near, but it remained annoyingly dark. 

Eventually John worked his way back toward Sherlock’s flat, stopping in at a small grocery to buy a few things with his remaining money. He got back into Sherlock’s building by following another resident on their way in. As he reached out to knock on the door for 2B, it suddenly occurred to John that if no one was around, he’d have no way to get to his things. 

Thankfully Kurt was still at the flat, and he let John in with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I haven’t seen Sherlock.”

“Ah, no worries. He’ll probably be back a bit later,” John said more optimistically than he felt. John unpacked the groceries into the kitchen, and went back to wait in Sherlock’s room poking through his things. He found the cup with the fish over it from their beach trip filled with old quills. John ran his fingers over it, watching as the fish moved aside in their wake. He discovered the sentient luggage in the back of the cupboard, and debated sending it after Sherlock like some kind of bloodhound, but it seemed to be sleeping. There was no reason for it to obey his commands after all, he wasn’t its owner. John buried his face in some of Sherlock’s clothes breathing them in, but he felt ridiculous and dropped them back in their drawers.

When it grew later, John ventured back out and started making dinner. He wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen by any means, but even he could manage to boil some spaghetti, and heat the jar of pasta sauce he’d bought. The flatmate, Kurt, stopped by to let John know he was going out with some friends. “Would you like to come along?” he asked kindly.

John felt five kinds of pathetic as he waved him off. “No, thanks mate. Sherlock will probably be along soon. Wouldn’t want to miss him.”

After Kurt left, John dished up a plate of the pasta, and ate it alone at the table. He left the rest mixed together in a pot on the stove in case Sherlock was hungry when he got home. Eventually, John stretched out on Sherlock’s bed with a book to wait for his to return. He fell asleep without meaning to again, waking up alone in the dim light of an overcast day. 

John felt a panic rising as it became apparent that Sherlock didn’t plan on resurfacing before John had to go. He dithered about putting off leaving until the last possible minute, hoping against hope. Finally, John had to admit it was time to leave if he wanted to catch his portkey in time. 

John sat to write a letter, finding a sharp quill and paper inside Sherlock’s desk drawer. There was so much John wanted to say, but he settled for

 _“Dear Sherlock,_  
_Whatever happened, we can talk about it. I love you and we can work this out together._  
_Please contact me when you get this._  
_All my love,_  
_John.”_

Sherlock’s flatmate moved about the kitchen frying something in a pan when John returned to the front room with his packed bag in hand.

“Oh, John, I am sorry. I still have not seen Sherlock.” Kurt said, frowning.

“No, me either. I left him a note.” John shrugged as if it were no matter, just a trifling little misunderstanding. “Thanks for putting up with me underfoot all weekend.”

“Of course. I’m sorry Sherlock didn’t come back. You came all that way.”

“Well, what can you do. Sherlock is Sherlock.” John laughed hollowly. “He’s like a cat. He’ll show up when he’s ready, yeah?”

“Ja. Good-bye then, have a safe trip.” Kurt nodded.

“Well, thanks, mate.” John managed a quick smile, leaving the flat before he crumbled. It near gutted him that a complete stranger was being so kind when Sherlock couldn’t even be arsed to show up to say good-bye. _What the hell, Sherlock, what the hell?_

As soon as John cleared the building, he apparated straight to the portkey station.

 

***

 

“Warte kurz, ich komme gleich.” - Wait a minute, I’m coming

“Schön dich wieder zu sehen.” – Nice to see you again.

“Also freust du dich nicht mich wieder zu sehen. Wie schmerzhaft.” – Not so pleased to see me then. I’m hurt.

"Willst du das Zeug nun noch?" – Do you still want the stuff?

"Nicht jetzt. Ich melde mich später bei dir.” - Not now. I’ll contact you later.

“Ich freue mich darauf. Darauf und auf den vollen Betrag, mein Hübscher." – I look forward to it, along with the full payment, my pretty one.

"Schönen guten Abend, die Herren." – Good evening, gentlemen.

“Guten Abend, was kann ich Ihnen bringen?” – Good evening, what can I get you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I hate when my boys have a hard time too. ;(
> 
> ***
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic (or want to yell about Sherlock) - drop me a line. It's nicer than a game of Exploding Snap by the fire to hear from you lovely folks!


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles to deal with the aftermath of Sherlock's baffling behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to my lovely betas, the-navel-treatment, and otp221b for their fast and fabulous services at fixing this latest chapter up! You guys ROCK! :)

***

“Yeah. It was a great trip.”

“What did we do? Went out to dinner once . . . yeah, didn’t make it out that much. I saw where Sherlock works again though.”

“Yup. Sherlock is good. Thanks for the ticket, Vic. That was good of you.”

John smiled and nodded at everyone. It was easier that way. Saying anything else about how the weekend went would . . . make it all real somehow.

Once everyone had gone to bed, John pulled the curtains around his bed, set his wand on _“Lumos,”_ and wrote Sherlock a letter. He filled pages and pages about how he felt, what he wanted and didn’t want, and where he hoped things were going between them. Finally satisfied, he put out the light and went to sleep. Before breakfast, John slipped up to the school owlery and found a school owl to deliver the letter all rolled up into a bulky cylinder, tied up tightly.

It took three days of being in a bit of a daze, but on Wednesday, John’s heart nearly stopped when he saw Sherlock’s black owl, Merlin, diving over his head at mail time. He put his hand up in case Merlin wanted to stay a moment and be petted, but the bird simply dropped a small scroll into his lap, and swooped back out. John hurried to read the letter, his fingers fumbling as he cracked the seal and unrolled it.

 _John,_  
_I’m sorry, but this isn’t working out. You deserve better, and I can’t be in a relationship with you anymore._  
_Please don’t contact me again. I hope you have a good life. You deserve it._  
_SH_

John’s first impulse was to crumple up the note. Then he carefully smoothed it flat, and placed it into a book to keep it safe. John found himself sneaking the note out whenever no one was looking over the course of the day. He reread it so many times that he soon had it memorized. Of course John wrote a letter in reply despite Sherlock’s warning not to. The school owl returned the next day with his note still strapped to its leg. Frustrated, John wrote a second letter, this time penning “PLEASE READ ME” in block letters along the front of the scroll. He found his own owl to deliver this one.

“Come on, Simpson, old boy. Make CERTAIN Sherlock reads this. Don’t take no for an answer.” He rubbed Simpson’s head, ruffling the feathers before tying on the scroll. “Do your best.”

John’s heart sank when his owl returned the next day with the same scroll still attached. Simpson nipped his ear affectionately when John pulled the message off as if to apologize for Sherlock’s rudeness. 

John used the school owls after that, and redoubled his efforts sending letters twice a day. At first he’d written long, heartfelt missives, but eventually, he just boiled his letters down to something simpler.

 _Sherlock,_  
_Please talk to me._  
_I love you, John._

On the seventh day, John sat at breakfast, pushing some eggs around his plate when the heartstone on his bracelet began to glow – he hadn’t taken it off since he’d gotten back from Germany. John’s pulse beat in his ears as he glanced around hoping against hope. The owl post swooped into the great hall, and a standard tawny owl flew over to drop a small package by John’s plate. With shaking fingers, John opened the box. Sherlock’s heartstone bracelet slid out into his lap. John searched inside the box, but there was no note with it, just the bracelet. John scooped it quickly into his pocket, feeling grateful that an owl managed to drop Teddy’s copy of the World Wizard News into his bowl of cereal, sparing him the need to make any explanations as everyone dealt with the mess.

John swallowed his pride, and wrote Mycroft after that. A large official-looking owl dropped off a reply two days later. John tucked the letter away to read when he was alone. First break he got, John rushed to the boy’s lavatory, and locking himself in a stall, tore open the envelope.

 _Dear John, ___  
_I am deeply concerned with Sherlock’s recent actions as well. Sadly, freezing his funds did not help curtail his behaviour earlier, and I doubt any more intervention on my part will bring any better results. Sherlock has moved from the accommodations that I set up for him, and is currently unreachable, refusing all mail. In truth, Sherlock is a legal adult, and living in a foreign country beyond the purview of my jurisdiction. Believe me when I say you have my condolences, John, for my brother’s recent deplorable decisions._  
Sincerely,  
_Mycroft Holmes._

John felt as if a void had opened up in the middle of his chest, and if he wasn’t careful, it would start dragging things into it like a black hole absorbing all available light. He didn’t realize how much hope he had placed on Mycroft as some sort of last resort until he held the unhelpful letter crumpled in his fingers. He tore it up and dropped it into the rubbish bin on his way out. Somehow John stumbled through the rest of his classes. 

After things had finished for the day, John pulled on his cloak and went for a walk around the grounds by himself. The snow had melted off, but the branches remained bare, everything painted a dull brown and grey under a flat sky. The scenery matched his mood perfectly, and he encountered few people out on such a raw day. When John ended up by the lake, he dug the bracelet out of his pocket, and unsnapped the twin from around his wrist. Holding the two up, John watched as the halves sealed themselves together. He flung it all as far as he could out into the water. The stone winked brightly against the colourless sky for just a moment as it fell, barely making a ripple as the bracelets slipped under the surface. John stood watching the wide expanse water for a moment before he fell to his knees, tears sliding unbidden down his face.

“John, are you alright, mate?” Tom asked when John finally appeared in the common room that evening.

“We missed you at dinner,” Dom chimed in.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling quite right. I might be coming down with something,” John said. “I’m off to bed early tonight I think.”

“Go see Madame Comfrey if you don’t feel better tomorrow,” Teddy said. “We’ve Quidditch practice after classes.”

“I know. I know,” John said. “I’ll be fine.” He escaped to the quiet of the dorm room thankful for no further scrutiny. John expected to toss and turn, but the day had worn him out, and as soon as he crawled under his covers, he tumbled into a deep, heavy sleep.

The next morning, John signed up to be a tutor in Charms, Muggle Studies, and Flying. He volunteered for extra prefect duties, and even convinced Victoire to join him in extra Beater practice on top of the twice-weekly team practices Teddy already had scheduled.

John took the photo he had of himself and Sherlock at the taverna in Greece out of his bedside drawer and shoved it to the bottom of his trunk. He added in everything else that reminded him of Sherlock - his stuffed bat, the red underwear, gifts, and the heaps and heaps of letters. John couldn’t bear to toss it, but looking at it was just too much. The picture had been particularly horrid. Where once the two of them had leaned together kissing and mugging for the camera, Sherlock had left and John now sat alone crying at the table. It wasn’t something he needed to see preserved in a Wizard photo.

***

Potions class proved an on-going challenge when John’s textbook still held Sherlock’s familiar slanted writing, little notes jotted down on every page. John found himself daydreaming in the class, his potions lagging, while Alastaire’s work was pronounced the best. The Slytherin looked confused at John’s apparent defection from their little competition. He tried to catch John’s eye across the room, but John just sighed, focusing on his cauldron, and dropped in the next ingredient.

Professor Lestrade stopped him after class one day. “Son, is something wrong? You just haven’t been yourself lately.” Lestrade frowned slightly.

“Sorry, professor, we’ve got a lot going on, Quidditch, homework, studying for NEWTS. It’s a lot.” John shrugged.

“That it is, that it is. No one ever said Year Seven was easy. Still, if you had a problem with something, you could come talk to me.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. If you don’t need me for anything else . . .”

“No, nothing else. I’ll see you later, John.”

“Yes, sir.” John nodded, and hurried off to his next class.

***

John felt as if he were encased in a thin layer of ice. He meant to tell someone about Sherlock, to admit the whole sorry business, but somehow the words had gotten stuck in his throat. Other words simply skipped out in their place.

_What page are we on?_

_Good job, mate!_

_Please pass the salt._

A fortnight of dragging along was finally punctuated by the first Quidditch game of the season. Gryffindor had the Slytherin team as their first opponents, and everyone felt on edge, hoping for an early win. Teddy gathered the team in the locker room for a last-minute motivational yell. John sat next to Owen on a bench watching him rub at a rune stone he kept in his pocket for games. “Good luck, good luck.” He muttered under his breath. “What, it can’t hurt,” Owen said when he caught John watching.

“Naw, good on you, mate. Whatever works,” John said, nudging his shoulder.

Joanne and Victoire did some stretches in the back while Teddy glared at their newer players Seth, Fatima, and Winston. “All right you lot, on your toes. Time to show us what you’re made of. These bastards aren’t going to give an inch, and neither are we. Who’s the BEST AT HOGWARTS?”

“GRYFFINDOR!” Everyone called back on cue before they marched out with their brooms to take their places on the field.

Try as he might, John kept bungling things horribly. He nearly knocked Fatima off her broom flying too close, and he let bludgers zoom right past him twice, almost hitting their chasers before Victoire managed to beat them back. When John accidentally blocked Joanne as she tried to make goal, Teddy called a timeout just to come over and scream at him.

“Watson, get your head out of your arse!”

The last straw came when John managed to smack one of the Slytherin chasers, Rhys Winters, in the arm dead on with his bat. He earned Gryffindor a penalty, and an order from Teddy to hit the sidelines, as he sent Winston out in his place. John took himself miserably back to the locker room to wait the rest of the game safely out of the way. 

Victoire found him there after things wrapped up, storming in with a fine head of steam. “John, what the hell . . .” She fizzled out when she found him bent in half on a bench with his head in his hands.

“John, are you okay?” She stopped before him.

“How’s Rhys?” John lifted his head to look up. “God, I’m so sorry I hit him. I wasn’t watching.”

“I think he’ll be fine.” Victoire sank onto the bench beside him. “They took him off to the infirmary to have it looked at, but he seemed okay.”

“So, did we win . . .?” John left the question trailing

“Yeah, we won.” Victoire nodded. “I’m worried about you though, John. You’ve been acting mental all week. What is it? Are you sick? Is something wrong at home? Out with it, man!”

“No, I’m not sick. It’s just that Alastaire Holmes is the Slytherin seeker, and from a distance, well, he looks just like Sherlock. I kept seeing him out of the corner of my eye, and . . . it threw me.”

“Oh, you poor thing.” Victoire softened. “You really miss him, don’t you?”

“Yes, no . . . it’s not that.” John shoved a hand back through his hair. “Vic, when I went down to see Sherlock last time, he . . . he broke up with me.”

“No.” Victoire’s eyes grew as round as dinner plates. “Merlin’s beard! That isn’t possible. Not you two . . . no.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Well, as it turns out, it’s very possible,” John said in an oddly light tone. “Looks like it just wasn’t meant to be, ya know?”

“What HAPPENED? You didn’t say a word!” Victoire exclaimed.

“God, Vic I wish I knew what happened. I don’t know, I just don’t . . .” John’s voice cracked horribly, and he had to stop.

Victoire threw an arm around John, and he sagged against her, covering his face with a hand as he gulped in air.

“Oh, you poor lamb. How could he? The bastard! I just . . .”

John straightened, scrubbing at his eyes as Teddy and the rest of the team clattered in.

“John, what the hell was all that?” Teddy demanded. “I can’t say breaking the arm of the other team’s best chaser wasn’t helpful, but we can’t do that every game.”

“Oh stuff it, Teddy. We won, didn’t we?” Victoire snapped. “John’s not well. Sherlock broke up with him.”

“What?” Teddy’s mouth dropped open. “No! I’ve never seen any couple more coupley than you two.”

“What, what is it?” Owen asked, pushing forward.

“Sherlock and John broke up,” Joanne said. “I know. I don’t believe it either.”

Fatima, Seth, and Winston just shrugged at each other, but looked sympathetic all the same.

“Wizard tag?” Owen offered.

“No, thanks, mate.” John drew in a good breath. “I just want to get on with things, you know? Got a lot to do. NEWTs coming up . . .” He trailed off.

“Yeah well, we can have a party at least.” Teddy reached out to clap John on the shoulder. “We beat Slytherin first one out of the gate. I bet Tom and Dom could get us a nosh from the kitchen downstairs.”

“Sounds good,” John said, managing something that looked like a smile, and let the noise of the team making for the changing areas wash over him.

***

“That’s horrid. That’s just horrid,” Victoire said shaking her head.

She and John sat in the corner of the common room with bottles of butterbeer while the party surged around them. The Gryffindors had been more than happy to join in an impromptu celebration on beating Slytherin. Music and merriment filled the room, as students shared the food and drink people had scrounged up. Someone conjured up a beach ball, and everyone joined in the fun turning it different sizes and colours as they batted it around the room.

“Yeah, it was pretty awful.” John tried to laugh, but it came out all funny. Finally John had managed to unload the whole sorry tale to someone.

Why didn’t you say something earlier, John?” Victoire asked.

To his horror, John found himself tearing up again. “I don’t know.” John shrugged, wiping his face clean on the back of his hand. “I guess it didn’t seem real at first, and then I just couldn’t find the words.” John took a long pull from his bottle. The cool wash of sweet helped settle him.

“Well, we’re all going to Hogsmeade this weekend, and we’re going to have fun. So much fun. All the fun.”

Victoire looked so fierce that John had to laugh. “That sounds good,” John said.

The party only broke up when Professor Pinworthy appeared in curlers and a polka-dotted dressing gown to order them off. “What is this? You’ve only had the one Quidditch game! I hope you aren’t planning this for every match. Enough! Off to bed, off to bed with the lot of you!”

***

Tom and Dom ended up having dates again with the Hufflepuff girls, but Victoire and Teddy, Owen and John spent the afternoon in Hogsmeade doing whatever silly thing they could think of. They ate one of every free sample at the Magic Neep Wizard mart, ogled the new Quidditch brooms in Spintwitches Sporting Needs, then tried on every ridiculous hat at Zonko’s joke shop before heading to lunch at the Magic Mushroom. After, they stopped in at Honeydukes to buy an armload of sweets at Teddy’s treat. Owen nipped off to run an errand, and they all headed back to school with their spoils.

“Thanks you lot. It was a good day.” John smiled on the walk back to Hogwarts.

“No worries, mate,” Teddy said, clapping John on the shoulder. “Sherlock’s just not worth getting that upset over, you know? He was a bit of poncy know-it-all. I think you’re well rid of him.”

“TEDDY!” Victoire hissed through her teeth.

John felt as if a wave of icy water had crested over his head. “No, don’t, Teddy. I know you mean well, but I don’t want to say anything bad about Sherlock, okay?”

“Yeah, all right, sorry,” Teddy spluttered.

“God, Teddy, way to put your foot in your mouth,” Owen muttered.

John felt suddenly horribly tired, tired of everything, and the idea of getting back for a quiet soak in the tub of the prefect’s bathroom sounded beyond appealing. “Look, thanks everyone, this was lovely, but I think I’d like to be alone for awhile. Maybe go take a bath.”

“Of course, John. We’ll see you later.” Vic smiled sadly.

When John returned to the common room, feeling pink and scrubbed after a bubble-gum scented rainbow bubble bath, Teddy and Victoire had hied off somewhere for some private time. The twins weren’t back yet, and only Owen sat by the fireplace with a book.

Owen looked up at his approach. “Johnny, my good man. How goes?” 

“I’m feeling better,” John said dropping into the armchair across from him.

“I’ve got an idea of a way to feel even better.” Owen waggled his eyebrows.

“Yeah, and what is this great idea?” John smiled.

“Come on up to the room, and I’ll let you know,” Owen promised mysteriously.

Owen’s great idea involved a bottle of firewhiskey, a bottle of red currant rum, and two bottles of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead.

“The mead was on sale.” Owen shrugged with a smile. “Come on, sometimes a man just needs to get drunk.”

“Owen, I think I love you, mate.” John grinned.

They decided getting pickled in the dorm room wasn’t the best spot, and after sneaking outside, found their way to the boat house next to the lake.

“Perfect,” Owen pronounced after he got the front door open with a few spells from his wand. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was fairly warm and dry on a cool night. They found a spot on the wood floor away from the stacks of boats, and settled down, backs against the wall where they could look out a window.

“Which first?” Owen asked as they lined up the bottles.

“I fancy the Red currant rum, I think,” John said. “Never had that one before.”

Owen cracked open the top, and took a drink, sending it to John next.

“Not bad,” John declared after a healthy slug.

“It grows on you,” Owen said accepting the bottle back. “You have to wonder,” he said, after thinking a moment. “If someone said they loved you, and then changed their mind. Did they really mean it in the first place?” He raised the bottle to glug against his mouth.

“I don’t know.” John sighed. “It doesn’t make sense. I just . . . don’t know.” He accepted the bottle from Owen for a swallow, sending it back when he was done.

“Sort of thing can keep a man up at night,” Owen said. He drank deeply.

“Yeah, where does the love go? Where does it go?” John mused taking the bottle for another swig.

“No offense mate, but you sound like that Ravenclaw door.” Owen chuckled.

John almost choked on his mouthful. “Funny. You’re a funny one.” He shook a finger Owen’s way.

“My Nan always said it was better to laugh than cry,” Owen said. “God, I miss her too sometimes.” Owen took the bottle back.

“Only the good die young, right?” John said.

“Naw, she was eighty-five when she passed.” Owen grinned.

They lapsed into a companionable silence, sharing the rum back and forth between them until it was finished.

“Fancy the firewhiskey next?” Owen lifted the empty rum bottle to consider it by the moonlight spilling in through the window.

“Bring it on.” John burped.

“Good riddance to birds!” Owen said once he’d opened the firewhiskey. “Who needs ‘em?” He raised the bottle in tribute, but stopped before it reached his lips, pausing to think, “But for you it’s blokes too, eh?” He frowned as he glanced toward John.

John blew out a breath and shrugged. “Who knows, mate? You know, before Sherlock, I WAS only interested in girls. I dunno. Sometimes things change.”

“So you weren’t gay and then you went gay?” Owen took a drink, and passed John the bottle.

“I dunno if it’s that simple,” John said taking another swallow. “Ooh, that burns abit, doesn’t it?” He winced as he handed the drink back.

“Don’t call it firewhiskey for nothing,” Owen chuckled tipping the bottle up. Again, they passed the bottle back and forth in turn, growing quiet.

“I’ve always fancied girls though. I wonder if I could fancy a bloke?” Owen mused at length.

“I dunno.” John shrugged. “I think it’s different for everyone.”

“Never even kissed a boy,” Owen said. “I wonder if I’d like it.”

“Well, you’ve got one here. Lay one on me, why don’t you?”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Don’t worry I won’t kiss and tell.” John smiled, the heat of the alcohol making him feel loose and open. He turned toward Owen slowly as if in a dream.

Owen leaned in, and they bumped noses awkwardly, clicking teeth before finally lining lips and tongues up for a snog.

“Hmmm,” Owen said as he sat back, reaching for the bottle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, John, but no.”

“Naw, me either. I don’t fancy shagging you, ya big lump.”

They both laughed so hard they toppled over.

“Open the mead,” John said. “I think the whiskey is bad for us.”

“Naw, we’re nearly done. Finish it an I’ll open ‘nother,” Owen slurred. 

They had plowed most of the way through the third bottle when John brought up Sherlock and couldn’t seem to stop.

“I always thought he was bloody gorgeous, you know, but tha’ night we had detention, and I got to know him . . . God, he took my breath away. Well, literally, I fell off a ladder, ya know, and he stopped my fall. I was sure he’d think I was a total idiot, but he wanted t’spend time wi’ me anyway. “

“Mmmmmm,” Owen commented from where he sat slumped against the wall. John pushed the bottle toward him, but Owen waved it off. John shrugged and took another swallow.

“The more I got to know ‘im, the more beautiful he was. I couldn’t believe it, that he chose me. God, Owen. I just wish I knew what I did wrong. I wish he had told me what . . .” John’s voice cracked. He felt like he might just be splitting right in two it hurt so much.

A gentle snore wafted over from Owen’s direction. John looked over to see his friend passed out, mouth open as he slept. John huffed a laugh, and reached over to pat Owen’s leg. “Light weight,” he said fondly.

John polished off the rest of the mead, and opened the last bottle. He took a long drink. The grog was definitely going down smoother now. John sighed, and noticed the night outside the windows properly. The full moon looked huge above the trees, and the stars shone so bright, so fucking bright in all that black sky. John found himself struggling up on wobbly legs to see them better. Next John knew, he was outside and walking by the lake, looking up at the stars without much memory of how he’d got there. He took a last drink, and set his bottle down to clamber up some rocks, slipping, catching himself, only thinking to get higher up. He finally scrambled over, arriving at the top. John craned his head back to look up. God, the stars were a glory. They were sharp, lovely pinpricks of light overhead. John reached out thinking they looked close enough to touch. Good thing they weren’t. They’d probably cut him if he could reach them, dangerous like everything else pretty in his life. He dropped his arm by his side, giving up.

“Gotta be careful,” John mumbled, as he turned to go. He staggered, and slipped, arms reaching and catching nothing as he flailed, tumbling through empty air. It was almost fun like flying without a broom until he hit the lake. His last thought was how shockingly cold the water was as it closed over his head.

***

“John. John, come on, mate, wake up.” A worried voice needled at him, a familiar voice. John could feel shaking, someone shaking him, but it felt odd, and so far away.

“He needs the healer.” Another voice, higher pitched . . . female. “I can get Madame Comfrey.”

“No, think. He’ll lose his prefect badge if we do that. He’d HATE that. We can handle this. We have to,” First voice said.

“I have something.” A different voice, sharper, someone posh, chimed in. “I have a potion, a hang-over remedy that might work.”

“Well, fine, get it. Hurry! He isn’t breathing well.” The first voice complained. “Come on John. Wake UP!” The sound of a hand striking flesh, twice, three times reached John as if coming through layers of cotton. His head shifted as someone slapped his cheeks, but it might have been on the person next to him, for all that he could feel it.

“Teddy, stop it. You might hurt him.” The higher voice came again, closer.

“Yeah well, if he stops breathing, that’ll be loads worse. Damn it, where is Alastaire with that potion?”

“I’m here, I’ve got it,” the plummy voice said. Oh, Alastaire. Alastaire Holmes?

John felt a moment of confusion as hands lifted him and forced a bottle to his lips.

“Come on, Johnny boy, drink it, there’s a good lad,” Teddy said.

“Just a bit. You can do it.” The higher voice . . . Victoire encouraged him.

John sputtered and choked, but some of the brew made it down. Something like fire raced through John, jolting him aware. When he stopped coughing, John was able to open his eyes and focus on those crouched around him, Victoire and Teddy, and Alastaire Holmes, of all people.

“What, what happened?” John managed to croak.

“You tell us.” Teddy’s voice was angry. “We were in common room, getting ready to go to bed when a patronus, a groundhog thing appeared, and told us you needed help. We followed it out here and found Alastaire with you sopping wet, next to death at his feet.” Teddy turned to glare Alastaire’s way. “Maybe Alastaire has some explaining to do?”

“I was taking a walk.” Alastaire’s voice rang out. “I was by the lake when I saw John fall in. I levitated him out, and removed the water from his airways, but he wasn’t regaining consciousness. That’s when I called you lot, and my patronus isn’t a groundhog, it’s a badger.”

“Well, thanks,” Victoire said, rubbing soothing circles over John’s back. “Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t come by in time.” 

“Yeah, who knows what Alastaire was doing out here in the first place,” Teddy said darkly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Alastaire protested. “I pulled him from the lake. I saved his damn life!”

“Yeah, and maybe you put him there in the first place?” Teddy growled.

“Teddy, no. It was my own stupid fault,” John managed to croak. “I was crawling around on the rocks . . . . like an idiot. God.” John rubbed his hands over his face. He felt so wretched. His head ached, his knees stung where he must have scraped them, and he felt positively freezing in his wet things. A shiver started up his spine setting his teeth chattering. He couldn’t seem to stop it.

“Okay, everyone move back,” Victoire said, rising to pull out her wand. “Let me get John dry at least.” Teddy and Alastaire rose and moved a few paces away as Victoire conjured a warm blast of air to blow over John. He sighed as the heat dried his clothes and hair. It helped enormously.

“Thanks, Vic.” John smiled weakly at her.

“No worries,” she said, slipping her wand away again. “John, you idiot. Don’t do this again.”

“Definitely try not to,” John agreed.

A group stumbled up to them in dark, someone singing a song, slurring the lyrics. As they drew close, John realized it was Tom and Dom with a near legless Owen supported between them.

“Hey, how’s John?” Tom asked.

“JOOOOooohn? Where . . .” Owen slurred, stumbling as he left the twin’s grasp to look about.

“Hang on, mate!” Dom reclaimed his arm to steady him.

“I’m here, I’m fine, thanks to this lot,” John said. “Here why don’t we give the rest of this to my pal, Owen over there?” John handed the small bottle of potion to Victoire.

“If Alastaire doesn’t mind. It is his potion after all.” Victoire looked Alastaire’s way.

“Yeah, okay.” Alastaire lifted a shoulder. “Look, if everything’s fine, I’ll just be going.”

“Why don’t you do that, Slytherin?” Teddy sneered.

“TEDDY,” Victoire snapped. “Lighten up a little. He just saved John’s life.”

“Yeah, if he wasn’t the one who pushed John in,” Teddy grumbled.

Alastaire might have had a comeback to that if he hadn’t already turned on his heel and started back to the castle.

“What happened, John?” Dom asked, worried.

“I decided to take a little dip in the pond while completely pissed it seems.” John raked his fingers back through his hair. “If Alastaire hadn’t seen me, I’d probably be sleeping with the fishes about now.”

“I still say he might have been the one to put you there.” Teddy crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t trust a Slytherin farther than you can chuck ‘em.”

“It’s not like that. . .” John protested when Victoire cut them off.

“Look, it’s past curfew. Let’s get our arses inside and debate this later.” She jerked her head back towards the castle.

“Yeah,” Teddy said stepping forward to offer John a hand. “All right there, John?”

“I’ll live.” John groaned as Teddy pulled him upright.

“Wait, what happened to John?” Owen asked, coming round after finishing the bottle of potion.

“Let’s talk about it inside,” John said with a grimace. “And Owen? Let’s not ever get four bottles of booze for two people again.”

***

Before the next potions class, John caught Alastaire outside in the corridor, waving Teddy, Tom, and Dom to go in ahead of him. He fished his potion textbook out of his bag and offered it to Alastaire. 

“I thought you might like to trade books,” He said.

“Why would I do that?” Alastaire narrowed his eyes.

“Mine has some . . . extra notes in it. Let’s just say I’m grateful for Saturday.” John held it out.

Alastaire took it flipping through the pages. “This is Sherlock’s old book.”

“Yeah, it’s yours if you want it.” John shrugged.

“All right. Thanks,” Alastaire said. “You know, I didn’t hex you at the lake. I did just see you fall in.”

“I know. I owe you,” John said.

“No, we’re even. You saved me from that bludger.” Alastaire pulled out his potions book and passed it to John. His eyes dropped to the ground before rising to fix on John. “I was the one who spelled it, you know. I was trying to see if I could get it to follow someone, but it backfired, and the damn ball wouldn’t leave me alone. Won’t be trying that again.”

John laughed. “Live and learn,” he said. The bell rang then, and they both hurried to take their seats in the Potions Dungeon before Professor Lestrade marked them as tardy.

“John, you might want to add the crushed barley first,” Alastaire whispered to John at the supplies cabinet later.

“Yeah, thanks, mate,” John said.

John caught up with Rhys after class. It seemed he had no end of amends to make that day. “Hey Rhys, how’s the arm? I’m so sorry I hit you like that.”

“Good.” Rhys nodded, flexing the arm in question. “I mean, you broke it in three places, but Madame Comfrey fixed it. I only had to stay in the infirmary overnight.

“Ah, well, good then. Good it’s all right now.”

“Hey John, I saw that you signed up to be tutor in Charms . . .” Rhys let the sentence hang.

“Yeah, I did.” John nodded.

“I was having trouble with a few of the latest spells . . . I wondered if we could meet up, and go over some of them?”

“Oh right, of course.” John smiled. “What evenings are you free?”

***

John woke suddenly in the night unsure what had disturbed him. He rolled over and stopped as his eyes landed on Sherlock standing beside his bed. He looked so pale in the moonlight streaming in through the window.

“Sherlock?” John blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“John, I’ve lost it. You have to help me.” Sherlock’s eyes remained shadowed, dark beseeching pools. “Help me, John.”

“What? I don’t understand.” John struggled up onto one elbow. Sherlock moved closer to the bed and John reached out to grab his wrist. He stared in horror when his hand passed right through him.

“My dog, John, I have to find it.”

“Sherlock, you don’t have a dog!” John cried out, and found himself awake for real this time, the sheets tangled around his legs. It was nearing dawn, and a thin grey glow lightened the room. John sat up to take a long shuddering breath, running his hands over his face. God, how long was he meant to feel this way? How long would he feel like his insides were made of lead? There was no chance of John falling asleep again, so he simply pushed the bed clothes aside and got up to take an early shower and start the day.

 

***

At breakfast, John tried very hard not to pay attention when the owl post arrived, there was no point really. An owl delivered Teddy’s Wizarding World News and didn’t manage to drop it in his breakfast this time. John looked up, surprised when Simpson landed with an envelope for him.

“Ah, thanks, old man.” John took it, giving Simpson a pat before he flew off again. John felt a bit guilty when he saw it was a letter from home. John hadn’t written to his mum in ages. She didn’t even know about Sherlock. When he split the envelope open with his thumb and read the letter inside, he felt even worse.

 _Dear John,_  
_I hope you’re doing well. Things have been interesting here. As you know, Stephen and I have been seeing quite a lot of each other. I don’t mind telling you I think he’s a fine man, and I hope you’ll feel the same as I have some good news. I know it’s a bit sudden, but Stephen asked me to marry him and I said yes. We aren’t planning anything big, just a ceremony at the courthouse and dinner at a restaurant. I know you were planning on spending Easter break in Germany, but we’re really hoping you and Sherlock can be there . . ._

John made a noise as he dropped the letter to the table, stunned.

“Bad news there, John?” Teddy called over the table, spreading out his newspaper.

“Not exactly. My mum’s getting married,” John said, thinking the very words felt strange in his mouth.

“Ooh, new stepdad,” Tom said.

“Yeah, I guess so.” John shrugged. “To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but you’re right, a stepdad.”

“Do you like him?” Dom asked reaching for the beans

“Yeah, I do. I met him at Christmas, he’s a good bloke. I just . . . mum wants me to bring Sherlock.”

“You never told her.” Vic winced.

“No, I just . . . I haven’t been writing home much lately.”

“You’d best let her know.” Owen spooned up his porridge.

“Yeah, I guess I will,” John agreed.

John wrote his mother a letter when he had free time that evening. He kept stopping and starting, trying to find the right words. Crumpled paper littered the common room at his feet. How did he actually say that he and Sherlock had broken up? Finally he came up with something that worked well enough, and trekked up to the owlery to send the letter home with Simpson. It was only a day before a card with a sad clown on it and a large box of home-baked biscuits arrived back.

“I think it’s broken,” Dom said poking at the clown card John had left on the breakfast table to pull open the biscuits.

“It’s a Muggle card, mate,” Owen chortled beside him. “They don’t move.”

“Oh, these are excellent!” Tom said as John passed the treats around the group. “You should break up more often.”

“Oh, shut it, you.” John threw his uneaten toast half Tom’s way, but he smiled as he did it.

 

***

 

John and Rhys had set up two evenings a week as a time to meet for Charms tutoring in Professor Pinworthy’s classroom. John was impressed with how quickly Rhys caught on to things. In just three meetings, the boy had made great progress. He only lagged on creating a good shield charm.

“See, you just twist your wand to the side while saying _‘Protego.'"_ John demonstrated pointing his wand toward himself. He felt a shimmer as the spell slid over him. “There, chuck, something at me.”

“All right.” Rhys grinned and flicked his wand to send items around the room spinning toward John. Three cushions, a book, and a long ruler all bounced off the invisible shield around John, sliding harmlessly to the floor. 

“Okay, your turn,” John said.

Rhys frowned in concentration, and set the charm over himself. _“Protego.”_

“Ready?” John asked. At Rhys’s nod, John sent a large round cushion flying his way. It slowed down as it approached Rhys, but sadly smacked the boy right in the face. 

John had to laugh at the surprised look on his face. Rhys joined in, and the two of them giggled away together for a moment.

“Sorry, looks like I don’t have it just yet.” Rhys chuckled, reaching out to put a hand on John’s arm. “Thank you for helping me though, John. I think I’m getting a bit better. At least it slowed down.”

A terrible, unexpected pang of guilt pierced John. He had the sudden irrational feeling that he was somehow cheating on Sherlock enjoying himself like this. On its heels came the knowledge that Sherlock had dumped him so he was free to do whatever he pleased with whomever he liked now. Besides he was just _tutoring_ someone for Godsake. John sucked in a breath at the mental whiplash.

“No worries. Come on let’s try it again, and think harder this time about forming a shield around yourself.” John forced a smile. “Imagine I’m coming at you with a bludger bat.”

“All right.” Rhys grinned.

After a few more tries, Rhys managed to deflect a few lightweight things, a crumpled ball of paper, and a quill pen.

“There, that was better.” John nodded.

Rhys shook his head. “I just have to hope I’m being attacked by cotton balls when I need a shield.”

“Everyone’s got to start somewhere.” John smiled.

“John, I was wondering if you wanted to go get a drink in the village next weekend . . . if you’re free.”

John stopped. Okay maybe it wasn’t just tutoring. John had to admit the Slytherin was fit. Rhys was a brawny thing, easily twice the width of Sherlock’s rangy form, but he had dark hair and blue eyes that reminded him a bit of Sherlock. “Rhys, I’m flattered really, but I just got out of a relationship. It ended badly, and I’m not looking to jump into something new.”

“I understand,” Rhys said. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious. Just a drink?” He tilted his head, and looked so hopeful that John couldn’t say no.

“All right, fine. A drink, but just as friends, okay? I’m just not up for anything else right now.”

“All right.” Rhys grinned. “Just as friends.”

 

***

“Oh God.” John gasped as Rhys moved against him, pushing John deeper into the bed. John slid his hands up over the corded muscles of Rhys’s smooth back, and held on. How had they come to this? One minute they’d been having an ale in the Three Broomstick’s pub, the next minute Rhys stood at the front desk paying for a room upstairs, and then . . . this. John reared up, and sank his teeth into the taut muscle between Rhys’s neck and shoulder. Rhys groaned deeply and sped up his movements. John knew this wasn’t Sherlock, the body above him felt all wrong for that, _God would he compare every lover he ever had to Sherlock for the rest of his life,_ but he was here, and so warm and real, and making John feel alive. Bliss whited out the rest of John’s thoughts and he sank gratefully into oblivion.

“Well, that was . . .” John struggled for words as they lay side by side afterwards.

“Bloody magnificent.” Rhys finished reaching out to touch John’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, it was good.” _Love, sweetheart._ The words remained unspoken on John’s tongue. How strange to be in bed with someone and have no endearments to say.

“This . . . this was wonderful, don’t misunderstand, but I’m really not looking for a relationship . . .” John said feeling like a complete arse.

“John, it’s all right. I know.” Rhys lifted John’s hand and dropped a kiss to his palm. “Whatever you have to give, it’s fine.”

“That’s good of you. It’s just . . . I’m a bit at loose ends.”

“Yeah, I understand.” Rhys nodded.

“Oh, God, Victoire . . .” John felt a new wash of horror at bedding his friend’s ex. What was the etiquette for this?

“You know, Victoire and I . . . we never . . . “ Rhys started.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” John said.

“I realized I like boys more than girls.” Rhys looked a bit chagrined.

“Victoire probably figured that out too.” John smiled. “Rhys, I’m sorry, but I can’t promise I’d want to do this again. I don’t want to lead you on or anything.”

“I get it. I’m up for anything you want, but I don’t want to pressure you.” Rhys reached over to run a hand down John’s side. “You’re lovely though.” Rhys moved closer to rock his thigh gently against John’s quickly increasing interest. “If you might be up for another round . . . ”

John felt like an utter rat but he pulled Rhys against him anyway. “Oh, God, yes..”

 

***

 

“I’m having a lie in every day,” Teddy declared as they found their seats on the Hogwarts Express. 

It had seemed forever away, but Easter break had finally come. John had spent a fortnight avoiding eye contact with both Alastaire Holmes and Rhys Winters in Potions class, and he looked forward to a few relaxing weeks, relatively speaking, away in the Muggle world.

“I’m having my mother’s cooking every day.” Owen smacked his lips. 

“We’re probably filling in at Dad’s shop,” Tom said glumly, glancing at his brother. 

“I’m getting two new sisters,” John said as they train jolted to life, pushing away to leave the Hogsmeade station behind.

“Oh, John. Good luck with your mother’s wedding,” Victoire said, leaning over to pat his knee.

“I’m sure it will be fine.” John smiled weakly. “I’m glad for my Mum, you know? I don’t want her to be alone. It’s just weird getting a new family over break. ”

“Wow, two new sisters.” Owen shook his head. “I’ve got two already, and I wouldn’t want anymore.”

Dom dug out a pack of cards, and they enjoyed playing some games as the train travelled the miles back to London. Everyone waved good-bye and scattered at King’s Cross Station leaving John alone as he shouldered his bag, and searched for his mother.

He finally saw her round face as she rushed in, late, to meet him. “Oh, John, look at you.” She squeezed him around the middle. “You get more grown-up every time I see you. I’m so glad you could make it home.”

“Of course.” John returned her embrace. “I wouldn’t miss your wedding, Mum.”

“So what would you like for dinner? I thought we could go out, just the two of us, and have a moment alone before it gets all crazy.”

“Yeah, sure, Mum. I think I fancy Chinese.”

“Excellent choice,” his mum said leading him back to the car. They buckled in before she pulled the car smoothly out into traffic. John couldn’t help remembering how impressed Sherlock had been with the car and his mother’s driving. The memory had him feeling teary again. He blinked it away. Christ, was everything going to remind him of Sherlock forever?

“How are you, honey? I was so sorry to hear about Sherlock,” his mum said as if reading his mind.

“Yeah. It’s been hard.” John had to swallow. “I keep wishing I knew what I did wrong and that I could go back in time, and not do it. I don’t know why he left me.”

“Oh, luv. Sometimes there isn’t one reason, or anything you can do. Long distance relationships are hard. You’re going to bounce back though, you know? You won’t always feel like this.”

“Yeah, I know.” John said looking out at the scenery as Muggle London slid by. He wondered if he’d ever feel like he didn’t have a Sherlock-sized hole in his life.

The Hunan Palace looked the same as ever, and John relaxed as the waiter brought them menus and green tea. He stirred sugar into his cup, and promised himself he wouldn’t think about Sherlock struggling with the chopsticks when they’d come together.

John ordered all the things he’d always loved, refusing to think about how Sherlock had enjoyed them too.

“John, I know this is a lot to take in, my marrying Stephen. We’ve only been dating a few months, and you only met his daughters, Elspeth and Gwen, the one time.

“That’s true,” John said. “Life is short though. Need to grab it while you can.” John sipped at his tea.

“Exactly.” Mrs. Watson nodded. “It’s just . . . we’re getting married because I’m pregnant.”

John spat his tea across the table. His mother handed him napkins as he choked.

“Oh, God, Mum.” John sputtered when he had his breath back. “You’re kidding? You’re not kidding.”

“Not kidding, no.” She sat watching him patiently.

“But Mum, you’re old . . .” John realized that perhaps this wasn’t the best of things to say right after it left his mouth.

“I’m forty-two.” His mum bristled. “I joined a support group for older mums. I’m not the oldest one there by far. Besides, Stephen is a bit younger, he’s only thirty-seven.”

“Right, okay. So you’re having a baby . . . with Stephen.” John struggled to make sense of it all.  
“Sweetie, I don’t want you to feel like you’re being replaced. You were always the baby.” She reached out to pat his hand.

“Mum, it’s okay. I’m eighteen. I don’t need to be the baby anymore. I just . . . I just want you to be happy.”

“Oh, John.” His mum went misty, grabbing a handful of her own napkins to wipe at her eyes. “I am happy. I want to pinch myself some days I’m so happy. I just didn’t want you and Harry to feel left out.”

“How did Harry take it?” John asked leaning in.

“Oh, Harry is Harry.” His mom waved her wad of napkins in reply.

Not so great John interpreted. The conversation paused as the waitress interrupted to place their food down on the table. John’s mouth watered as he heaped his plate.

“So, Mum are you feeling alright? Is everything going okay?”

“Actually, yes, things are going remarkably well. We had an ultrasound done last week, and the baby looks fabulous. I’m fine too, just smelling EVERYTHING. Speaking of which, we probably shouldn’t have gotten prawns. They smell horrible.” She wrinkled her nose.

“No worries, Mum.” John called the waitress back, and had the offending seafood boxed up for carryout. “So is it a boy, or a girl?”

“It’s too early to tell yet. John, I hate to even say this . . ." His mum sniffled, wiping at eyes beginning to leak again. "I didn’t tell Stephen about the whole Wizard business. I didn’t want to muck things up. If we could just keep it all a bit private . . .”

“No, it’s FINE, Mum. Really, I understand.” John handed her more napkins, worriedly watching as she mopped at the streams flowing from her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She took a breath, composing herself. “I’m turning into a regular watering pot. Hormones.” She gave a watery smile before blowing her nose. “You’re the best, Johnny.”

“Thanks, Mum.” John reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “We’ll be fine, all of us. I know we will.”

 

***

 

“God, I’m going to pop that little snot Elspeth if she rolls her eyes at me one more time.” Harry took a drag off her cigarette, and blew her smoke up into the dark sky.

John regretted ever scolding Sherlock for smoking. He found himself half-wishing that he himself smoked, and wondered if it was worth it to start. The night was cool, and he and Harry huddled close on a bench on the patio at Stephen’s house for warmth. Dinner had dragged on and on with Stephen’s parents in attendance along with his daughters. Harry had announced loudly that she was vegan now, and refused the pasta and cheese dish that Mum had made special for her. Things had slid downhill from there, only mercifully wrapping up with the grandparents going home, and the little ones needing to be put to bed.

“Ah, Harry, come on. Give the kid a break, she’s only nine.” John nudged her before taking a drink from his beer.

“At least the little one is malleable.” Harry took a swig from her own bottle of beer. “I’ve got Gwen believing the monster under her bed will come take her away if she’s rude to Mum.”

“Oh, Harry, you didn’t. She’ll probably never sleep again.” John groaned.

“Serves her right.” Harry shrugged. “She told Mum she was too fat to have pudding.”

“Bitch.” John said taking a pull from his bottle, and the two of them collapsed into giggles.

Stephen seemed a good enough fellow. He worked as a house appraiser though, and John couldn’t think of a thing they had in common to talk about. Stephen kept trying to be all blokey, joking around with John man to man, and hotly offending Harry in the process. John wanted to tell him not to try so hard, as long as he made his Mum happy, John was fine with him. Judging how the two had smiled moonily at each other over the table, that wasn’t going to be a problem.

“Come on. I know Mum said she’d come back home with us, but let’s tell her she can spend the night, and we’ll come get her in the morning. There’s a band playing tonight we can still catch if we hurry.”

“I dunno.” John shrugged. “Hey, so what about Clara, are you still seeing her? You never said?”

Harry blanched a bit. “Naw, Clara went back to her old girlfriend. I mean we only went out a few times. I wasn’t too surprised that she ended up with Jamie. I think it was due to that bit of magic Sherlock did that she went out with me at all.” Harry finished her smoke with one long last inhale, and leaned over to stub it out on the stone floor. “Speaking of that posh tosser. There’s someone I’d really like to pop. Pulling you to the dark side, and then dropping you like yesterday’s news? I’d knock his block off if I could. How dare he?”

“Harry, leave it. I don’t want to talk about Sherlock tonight.” John drained his bottle. “Come on, let’s tell Mum we’re off to give her some peace and quiet, and I’ll come see your band. Just don’t tell Mum we’re going out, she’ll just worry.”

“Please, Johnny. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Harry smirked.

***

Harry dragged John to a new club that he hadn't been to before to hear a band called “Slippery Slope.” The pounding beat, the sticky floors, and the smell of desperation in the air reminded him too much of the place they’d gone to over the summer with Sherlock. John ended up getting smashed at the bar while Harry flirted up the pretty dykes, crying into a bar napkin until the bartender called Harry over.

“Is that one with you? Take him off, will you? He’s scaring away my business.”

“Oh Johnny.” Harry helped him to his feet. “Come on, time to go, there’s a good lad.”

“He left me, Harry. He just left me. Wasn’t I good enough?” John babbled among other things that he hoped he wouldn’t remember come morning.

“You’re the best, Johnny. The absolute best,” Harry growled slinging an arm around John’s shoulders. “Come on now, it's bed time for you, luv,” she said, leading him back to her horrible little car.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
> Shock blankets and bars of chocolate for all who need them. I know it's a hard chapter. Things do get better later.
> 
> ***
> 
> As always, your lovely comments and kudos are better than a glass of Bungbarrel Spiced Mead. I won't say no if you send some my way!


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graduation finally comes, and with it, a summer of exploration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks and another ride on the Hogwarts Express to my beta, otp221b. She recently made it to Harry Potter World in Orlando. LUCKY! I hope to visit there myself some day! It sounds awesome! :)

***

 

“OH MY GOD.” John closed his eyes as his head thudded back, connecting with the door behind him. Meeting Rhys in a cupboard near the great hall hadn’t been in John’s plans for the day, but it seemed to be going well all things considered. John groaned loudly, quickly clamping a hand to his mouth to muffle the noise. He cracked an eye open to watch Rhys knelt before him, his dark head bobbing a steady tempo. John let his free hand fall, threading his fingers into the boy’s thick hair to urge him on. _Mother of God._ Rhys tilted the angle, taking more of John into his mouth. 

“Nnnngggg,” John moaned around his hand. Rhys answered with a soft noise in the back of his throat. He should stop this, John thought, put on the brakes before someone walked by and heard them, but it felt so damn good . . . John’s thoughts ground to a halt as a wispy white form drifted in through the wall to join them.

“Oh John, there you are, Professor Lestrade was looking . . .” 

If a ghost could blush, Nearly Headless Nick would have turned beet red, so gobsmacked was the expression on his face as he stared at their tableau. An awkward silence enveloped them as John stood tongue-tied, and Rhys froze with his mouth quite full. Thankfully the ghost turned and whooshed back out through the bottles of cleaning potion without another word.

“Bloody hell,” John said as Rhys popped off and fell back. They locked gazes and burst out laughing. John dropped to the floor beside him, chuckling weakly.

“Merlin’s drawers, at least it wasn’t the Bloody Baron.” Rhys wiped a hand over his mouth.

“He’s the worst,” John agreed. 

“I woke once my first year to find him hovering next to my bed. I pissed the sheets, and didn’t sleep for a week.” Rhys gave a mock shudder. “When I started to drop off in classes, the teachers found out, and put up a spell to ban all ghosts from students’ rooms.”

“Oh, I wondered about that,” John said. “They usually just go where they want, don’t they, but I noticed we never saw any in the Gryffindor dorms.” 

“None of the dorms now. That was me.” Rhys grinned lopsidedly. 

“Well, no shame there. I don’t like to meet the Baron in the corridors in broad daylight,” John said. “Look, I guess we should go if Professor Lestrade is looking for me.”

“One more minute?” Rhys asked reaching up to cup the back of John’s skull, pulling him in closer. 

“Mmmmm,” John answered as warm lips connected with his own. “A’right, one mo . . . .” 

John sank into the Slytherin’s embrace, and no more talk of leaving was mentioned for several minutes. Later, they took turns exiting the cupboard one at a time when the coast was deemed clear. Rhys went first, giving John a last quick kiss before darting out. 

John was reminded painfully of similar precautions taken the year before with Sherlock, and had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The memories still packed a punch. Despite his better judgment that this was just a rebound thing, John had slid into a relationship of sorts with Rhys. Some of the other Gryffindors were a bit shirty about it, his going out with a SLYTHERIN, but his close friends just shrugged. They remembered how he’d been the first few weeks after the break-up. John made his way to Professor Lestrade’s office and knocked on the door. 

“Come in.” Professor Lestrade’s voice boomed out. He glanced up from some scrolls spread over his desk as John opened the door. A quill pen moving by itself, writing neat lines across a page stuttered.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” John said.

“Yes, yes I did. Come in, son, sit down.” Lestrade removed his spectacles to wave them toward a nearby chair. As John took his seat, the teacher made another quick pass over his desk, sending the scrolls into a neat stack, and the quill to lie flat beside them. 

“John, I wanted to let you know that I heard back from St. Mungo’s about the healer training scholarship.” Lestrade steepled his hands before him on the desk. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“You’ve won the scholarship.” Lestrade grinned. “Well, contingent on passing your final exams, but I think you’ll have no worries there. Congratulations, son.”

“Oh, wow. That’s . . .well, that’s . . . brilliant.” John blinked, not quite sure what to make of the extraordinary news. 

“John, I don’t wish to be overly personal, but I’ve heard about your break-up with Sherlock.” Lestrade gentled his voice. “I assumed your plans to move to Germany had changed?”

“Yes . . . that’s true,” John said looking down at his hands. Somehow it still seemed unreal hearing it spoken aloud even these few months later.

“Is it safe to say you’ll be accepting the position? You should be receiving word in the post of it any day now.” 

John felt a bit as if he were in a hole, speaking from far away. “Yes, I think I will. It was my original plan. My father went to St. Mungo’s, you know.” 

“Excellent.” Professor Lestrade beamed. He stood, moving around the desk to extend a hand. “I think you’ll do fine there, John. I’m pleased to see you chosen for this.” 

“Thank you.” John reached out to shake the man’s hand. 

“John.” Lestrade released him to lean back against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms. “About Sherlock . . . it isn’t really my place, but I wanted to let you know . . . I see his brother, Mycroft from time to time.”

“Yes, sir?” John hated the way his heart leapt up into his throat. 

“He tells me that Sherlock is living with a friend now, a fellow intern named Irene Adler? He’s doing quite well at his workshop, developing some new potions. Mycroft thought you might like to know.” 

“That’s . . . good.” John cleared his throat. “Good to know.”

Lestrade nodded. “Well, don’t let me keep you, son. I know you’ve lots to do.” 

“Yes, sir, thank you so much.” John stood to leave, but as his hand reached the doorknob, Professor Lestrade’s voice stilled him, addressing him once more.

“John, speaking from experience, I wanted to let you know. It does get better.” 

John nodded, not trusting himself to answer, and escaped into the corridor. 

 

***

 

“Soddering, bloody, buggering, slime-laden hell.” Tedd groaned. “What is the answer for section five? I swear the NEWTs are going to KILL me.” He poked at his page of sample questions.

“You and me both,” John said running a hand back through his hair. “I think it’s the Second Goblin War thingie.” 

“It’s the 18th Century Goblin Rebellion,” Tom said.

“And it was Cedric the Brave who led the last charge that ended the last armed conflict,” Dom added.

“AAaaarrggggh,” Owen added sinking his forehead to the table, nearly face-planting into his bowl of porridge. 

With final exams looming in mere weeks, the seventh years had taken to studying at every opportunity. Even meal times had become another opportunity for cramming in some information. John thought back to the previous year when Sherlock had been studying madly for the NEWTs, and realized he’d had no clue what the seventh years were going through. The memory of Sherlock walking around with his nose in a book brought a sharp pang through his chest, and John stuffed the thought away as quickly as he could. Victoire sometimes joined them for meals but had taken to sitting farther down the Gryffindor table where people actually enjoyed light conversation over their food. John saw her at the other end of the table laughing with Fatima from the Quidditch team, and a few other fifth-year girls.

“Here, now. Pass the kippers,” Dom said nudging John’s side. “That’s brain food.” 

John was surprised when his owl, Simpson, swooped in to deliver a letter. He didn’t get mail very often these days. It was a letter from his mum of course, one of the few people who actually wrote to him. John cracked open the envelope to pull out the folded pages inside. He scanned quickly over his mother’s lines, a lump sticking in his throat. The rest of his breakfast suddenly didn’t look too appealing. 

“Hey, I’ll catch you lot at Charms,” John said with a forced smile, as he gathered his things. “Left something back at the dorm.” 

“See ya, John.” Teddy looked up.

“Laterz,” Tom called.

John didn’t have that much time until class started but he just needed a moment alone. He found an empty bench in the courtyard in a nice patch of sunshine. It was a relief to see the warmth and green finally returning. John pulled his mother’s letter out and read through it again more slowly. She was selling the townhouse. It made sense. Of course she and Stephen would want to find a newer, bigger place together. Just as he was feeling more accepting of the idea, John thought of the new conservatory, and groaned. Oh God. Sherlock had spelled it onto the house as a gift to John’s mum on his first visit. John’s eyes felt hot and prickly, and he quickly scrubbed a hand over them. Losing the house would be losing yet another connection to Sherlock. 

A shadow fell over him as someone stood, blocking the sun. “Hey, John, everything alright?” Victoire asked. 

John let out a huff of breath, squinting up at her backlit silhouette. “Not really, no.” 

Victoire slid onto the bench beside him. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

When John had explained about his mum selling the house, Victoire pulled a face. “Oh, that is hard,” she said.

“I just thought my mum would always be there for holidays and the like. I can’t imagine spending every visit with Stephen’s family now.” 

“It’s only my parents, my sister and me proper at our house, but we have so much extended family, there’s always someone popping round for a visit.” Victoire shrugged. “I love our house. It’s called Shell Cottage. I’d be gutted if we ever left it.” 

“Yeah, well . . .” John trailed off. 

“Poor John.” Victoire patted his knee. “Hey, I heard about your big plans for the summer though. I guess you were all keeping it a secret? Teddy finally told me about it.” 

“I’m sorry, Vic. We didn’t mean to keep it a secret. It’s just Teddy and Owen both have jobs lined up at the Ministry of Magic, Tom and Dom have their dad’s shop to return to, and I’m off to St. Mungo’s in the autumn. This summer is our last chance for a big trip together. We can knock about, see the sights, have some fun before all the next stuff happens.”

“Where are you planning to go?”

“Haven’t nailed it down completely, but we thought we’d go about the continent a bit, find the Wizard hotspots.” John shrugged.

“Is Rhys going with you?”

“Oh, no. He’s not.” John coloured a bit when he realized it had never occurred to him to even ask. “Vic, we never really talked about Rhys, I’m sorry if it’s weird . . . that we started going out.” 

“No, of course not. I’m happy you both found someone.” Vic glanced at him. “So, do you think you might go by Germany on your trip?” 

“I was hoping the lads wouldn’t mind if we gave Germany a miss to be honest.” John looked down at the letter still clutched in one hand. 

“Of course.” Vic nodded. 

A bell sounded beyond, and Victoire jumped to her feet. “Oh, time to go. I’ve got Care of Magical Creatures, and if we’re late, Professor Hagrid makes us clean up the flobberworms cage.” 

“Yeah, I’ve got Charms. See you later, Vic.” 

“Bye, John.” Victoire waved as she hurried off.

***

John swung his bat and connected dead on with the bludger heading his way. The ball soared nicely over the heads of some other players, and back into the Hufflepuff side. John scanned the field, and grinned. The sun shone brightly overhead as pennants snapped in the light breeze. It really was a gorgeous day for the final game of the season.

Thank Merlin for Quidditch, John thought as he changed direction on his broom, swooping agilely around a Hufflepuff chaser and their own chaser, Joanne, flying neck and neck. There was something so clean and pure about the game, keeping the bludgers from hitting anyone, helping the chasers get the quaffle toward the goal posts, keeping the seeker clear to find the snitch. It was unambiguous being a beater, and John appreciated something straightforward in his life right then. See the ball, hit the ball. He could do this.

The crowd around the playing field roared as a Hufflepuff managed to get a quaffle past Owen into the Gryffindor goal. Damn. Thankfully the tide changed soon after as Seth and Fatima scored two goals one after the other against the Hufflepuffs. Victoire stopped a bludger from clipping Teddy’s broom, and John laughed out loud as he hit another away from a knot of Gryffindors. They were on fire today, unstoppable! It seemed only a matter of minutes before Teddy scooped the golden snitch out of the achingly-blue sky, and it was all over. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch cup for the year.

“WOOOOooooo!” Teddy cried as the stands erupted. Red and gold rippled triumphantly over the spectators as the wild cheers echoed around them. 

“Brilliant!” Victoire called flashing John a bright smile. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy.

The team fell into an ecstatic huddle as soon as they reached the ground, pulling each other into a group hug. Several hands patted John on the arse, and he didn’t even care who they belonged to. A contact high carried them all the way to the Gryffindor common room where a party kicked off in top gear, everyone giddy with the house victory. John had a bottle in one hand, and his other arm around Owen’s neck, the two of them singing some dirty Wizard drinking song when a first year tapped John shyly on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me, sir, but there’s someone at the door to see you?” 

“Great, thanks, Henry.” John smiled broadly at the small boy. _Christ. Had any of them ever really been that little?_

John made his way to the hole behind the portrait, pushing it open to find Rhys in the corridor without, raking his fingers through his thick raven hair as he paced.

“Oh, Rhys, hi there.” John climbed out to join him, letting the picture swing closed behind him.

“John, I thought we were meeting after the game?” Rhys rounded on him.

“God, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot . . .” 

“Yeah, you do a lot of that.” Rhys compressed his mouth into a thin line. “Congratulations on the win, by the way. You lot played an excellent game.” 

“Thanks.” John felt his cheeks heating, a sense of unease prickling up the back of his neck.

The fat lady in the portrait gave a disapproving snort, clearly hanging on their every word. John sent her an irritated glance over his shoulder.

“Hey, I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” John reached out to take Rhys’s arm, thinking to move them farther down the hall away from the eavesdropping. The taller boy stepped back though, avoiding his touch. 

“I’ve hardly seen you in days.” Rhys frowned.

“Yeah, well, it’s been mad, NEWTs and all . . .” 

“I have exams too,” Rhys said quietly. “Listen, John. I took a hard look at the last few months. You know what I realized? Unless you’re interested in getting off, I never seem to see you.”

“God, Rhys . . . “ 

“I’m sorry, John. I said I would take whatever you had to give, but I realize that isn’t enough anymore.” Rhys sucked in a breath of air. “I don’t want to be someone’s fuck buddy.”

“Oh, God.” John felt ill. “I never meant . . .” 

“No, I know.” Rhys shifted his weight, dropping his eyes to the floor. “This just isn’t working for me anymore.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand. Rhys, I’m so sorry . . .” 

“Let’s just give it a rest, alright?” Rhys looked up to spear John in his gaze. 

“Yeah, okay.” John felt light-headed, adrift as Rhys swept him into his arms, crushing John against him for just a moment.

“Good-bye, John,” Rhys muttered, releasing him to pivot on his heel and move quickly away down the corridor.

John stood with his mouth slightly open watching him go.

“That wasn’t well done, dearie.” The fat lady clucked as John turned back to the portrait. She shook her head sadly at him.

“Pickle juice,” John gritted out, giving the password and nothing more. The noise of the party washed over him as the painting swung outward. John climbed back inside, letting someone slap him on the back and press a fresh bottle of butterbeer into his hand as he slipped back into the group. 

 

***

The big day had dawned overcast, threatening rain, but enough weather-working Witches and Wizards had gathered at the Hogwarts graduation ceremony to send the clouds scuttling off. John pulled on his purple graduation robe, and adjusted the matching hat. He looked around at his friends. Owen was still getting dressed, but the rest of them seemed ready to go. It felt nearly impossible, but they were finally done with Hogwarts, exams sweated through and passed, trunks packed and ready to ship. All they had to do was walk across a stage and collect a diploma now. It hardly seemed real. 

Only a few minutes late, the Gryffindors filed down from the dorms to join the rest of the graduating class. As one, they moved to take their seats before the large stage that had been assembled once more before the lake. John had a dizzying sense of déjà vu as he looked around at the risers of spectators gathered, and the colourful flags hanging above the stage. Had it really been a full year since he’d sat here watching Sherlock graduate? A lump formed in John’s throat and he had to swallow several times to clear it. Harry and his mum, her belly just starting to round were sat somewhere on the rows of benches watching.

John remembered how his mum had looked so proud, eyes shining when he’d met the two of them at the Hogsmeade train station. They were staying at a small Muggle inn several miles away along with the other Muggle families who had come to see their extraordinary children graduate. 

“John, I didn’t bring Stephen. I’m sorry, I’m still not comfortable telling him about all this.” His mum waved a hand toward the many Wizarding families tumbling off the train around them.

“Yeah, can you imagine?” Harry turned to watch as a mother conjured a stream of water to quench a small child who had burst into flames. The woman twisted to scold a taller boy nearby. “ _Roger,_ what did I TELL you about setting your brother on fire . . .”

“No, it’s okay, I understand. It’s just us one last time.” John smiled, and hugged them both, amazed at having his worlds collide with his family visiting Hogwarts. He was embarrassed when tears gathered unexpectedly in his eyes as he pulled away. “I’m just so glad to have you both here.” 

“Aw, Johnny, you big mug. We wouldn’t miss it,” Harry sniffed in reply, and punched him a bit too hard in the arm. 

John blinked, focusing his attention on the professors and speakers gathering on stage as the ceremony began. Someone from the Ministry of Magic got up to speak, and John’s thoughts skittered off again, this time to Sherlock’s valedictorian speech of the year before. A smile tugged the side of his mouth at the memory of how inappropriate it had been, but so very, very Sherlock. John sighed. At least he could think of Sherlock without feeling completely hollowed out now.

“Bloody blah blah blah.” Someone muttered nearby and a titter ran through the students around them. John turned to see who had spoken, and found himself locking gazes with Rhys. They’d been sorted alphabetically to be called onto the stage and Rhys Winters was sat only a Lettice Weller away from him. John was happy to at least have Owen Walker solidly at his other side. John nodded politely over the girl’s head, and Rhys returned it with a jerk of his chin. Christ, John hadn’t handled things with Rhys well at all. He turned back to the front as a round of enthusiastic applause greeted the next speaker. 

John sat up straighter when he realized it was none other than the famous Harry Potter. Of course, he’d almost forgotten he was Teddy’s godfather. It made sense he’d be here today. For all the legend surrounding Potter, John found him a rather unassuming looking man. Still, he gave a rousing, inspirational speech, and everyone cheered loudly when he was done. 

“Well, that was something, eh? The famous Harry Potter!” Owen whispered as they took to their feet, getting in line for the stage. 

“I dunno. He was shorter than I expected,” John said.

“You’re one to talk,” Owen snickered.

The rest of the ceremony raced by in a blur. John’s head snapped up at “HOLMES” and for just a flicker, he half-expected Sherlock to walk by. He watched as instead Alastaire Holmes stalked imperiously across the stage, shoulders thrown back to receive his diploma. John climbed the steps in a bit of a daze when his own name was called. He accepted his scroll, and shook several outstretched hands, one of which was a beaming Professor Lestrade. John glanced toward the castle looming in the distance as he made his way back down the stairs. It was hard to remember how awestruck he’d been with Hogwarts, arriving as a wet-behind-the-ears first year. He’d miss the place, really miss it, John thought as he found his seat again.

Dinner turned out to be a rousing, complicated affair as Mr. Potter and his wife took Teddy and all his friends and their families out to celebrate. John found himself back at the Golden Goose restaurant, but this time sequestered away in a private room tucked to the side. Mrs. Watson made instant friends with Owen’s parents, the only other Muggle family at the event, and seemed intent on acting as some sort of interpreter for them. Owen’s two sisters simply ogled everything with eyes so wide it looked as if they might pop out of their heads and roll around the floor. Harry Watson, practical as always, ignored the floating dishes and cups zooming around their heads to concentrate on putting away the wine at a steady pace.

The Wizard families looked much more comfortable with their surroundings of course. Teddy’s grandmother, an elegant older woman chatted easily with the Potters though the Middlestons, Tom and Dom’s parents, looked utterly starstruck to be eating with celebrities. Victoire sat next to Teddy, having stayed behind to watch his graduation, and John felt a pang go through him at the sad looks on her face all through the dinner. Teddy had already informed everyone he’d only be following part of their grand tour, returning to the U.K. to spend the last fortnight with Victoire before his new position began. 

“So, I hear you lot have quite an adventure planned.” Mrs. Potter smiled warmly at John across the table. “Where are you boys off to first?” She was a gorgeous woman, her long ginger hair pulled onto her head in a complicated knot. 

“Erm, France first, ma’am.” John found his tongue with some difficulty. “Then we’ll just play it by ear.”

“Though I really fancy seeing Switzerland,” Owen said beside him, forking up his pasta dish. “That’s on the list.”

“If you get a chance, you must visit Costa de la Luz in Spain,” Mrs. Potter said. “There’s a fabulous little village there called Valdevaqueros near the beaches. It was one of our best holidays visiting there.” She smiled indulgently at her husband who had gotten up to speak with the Middlestons. They looked ready to swallow their tongues, though Mrs. Middleston had mustered up the courage to thrust a piece of paper at Mr. Potter to sign. Tom and Dom looked ready to die.

“You’ll have to make sure Teddy stays in line though. Keep an eye on him. They have gorgeous women in Costa de la Luz.” Mrs. Potter dropped a cheeky wink before glancing down the table to where Teddy sat shoveling in a large bite of something in cream sauce.

“Oh, Aunt Ginny, stop teasing!” Victoire dropped into the chair her uncle had temporarily vacated. She reached out to steal a piece of bread from her Aunt’s plate. 

“No, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about Teddy,” Ginny Potter said smoothing a hand over her niece’s hair. “I do hope you have fun though,” She said, turning back to address the boys across the table. “It sounds marvelous. We didn’t manage to do much traveling when we were young. So much going on back then.” 

“I can imagine,” John said, feeling odd at talking with people who had been so important at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Later when John excused himself to use the loo, he was only marginally surprised to bump into Mycroft Holmes at the line of sinks. It seemed like the sort of night where the past and present had softened to bleed together around the edges. 

“John,” Mycroft greeted him cordially. He wore his usual natty pin-striped robe looking impeccable as always as he dried his hands on a small towel.

“Hullo, Mycroft,” John said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. And you ? You’re looking . . . well,” he prompted.

John felt like a thin veneer of “well” tacked over an ocean of not very well at all. “Yeah, yeah, . . . I’m good.” 

Mycroft’s haughty demeanor shifted to something much more human. “John, I’d heard that you’ve received a place at St. Mungo’s in the autumn. Congratulations.” 

“That’s right.” John nodded absently. “Mycroft, I wondered if you knew . . .” John swallowed loudly. He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence. 

Mycroft softened further. “Though my brother continues to eschew direct communication with me, I have it from reliable sources that he continues to excel at Herr Moser’s workshop. Also his association with certain unsavory characters . . . has thankfully come to an end.” 

“Ah, that’s good,” John said. “I’m glad he’s doing . . . well.” 

“John,” Mycroft began, pausing to chose his words. “I’m sorry things ended between you and Sherlock as they did. He treated you abominably. You didn’t deserve that.” 

“Yeah, well . . .” Suddenly John couldn’t bear to talk about Sherlock any longer. He felt a prickle building behind his eyelids, and he blinked hard. He’d be thrice damned if he’d start crying in front of sodding Mycroft Holmes. “So, what brings you to Hogwarts for graduation?”

“I came to escort my Aunt Cressida, and to see my cousin, Alastaire, graduate of course.”

“Oh, right,” John said. “Did you have a watch for him too?” John didn’t know why he said it, it simply popped out.

“Actually,” Mycroft said, his face returning to its more habitual neutral mask. “I do have something from our grandfather to pass on to Alastaire.” 

“Ah.” It occurred to John suddenly, and he wasn’t sure why it hadn’t hit him before, that Mycroft had lost his father at a very young age too. He might have been seven or so to Sherlock and John’s infancy at the Battle of Hogwarts, but he had grown up fatherless all the same. John felt such a wave of empathy for Mycroft wash over him just then. _Poor little boy suddenly made the man of the house._

“Mycroft, it was good to see you again.” John extended his hand. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He regarded John for just a moment before clasping his palm, shaking it as solemnly as if he were greeting some head of state. “You as well, John. I do wish you the best in your upcoming endeavors.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Good-bye, John.” Mycroft nodded before he turned to leave.

“Good-bye, Mycroft.” John said softly, watching as the ornate door swung closed behind the prickly man.

***

John and Owen spent their last night in at the Muggle inn with their families while the rest of the party stayed in Hogsmead proper to sleep at the Three Broomsticks. After everyone had retired, John found Harry still downstairs, outside in the garden, bottle in hand and smoking as usual. 

“Hey Hair-bear,” John called as he neared her on the chaise lounge, her cigarette glowing brightly in the dim light of a single outdoor lamp. John slipped into the seat beside her.

“Hey Johnny, my boy.” Harry hadn’t consumed much more alcohol than she normally did at events, but she was definitely buzzed. “We have to stop meeting like this.” 

“Never.” John reached over to nick Harry’s bottle and took a swig from it. “Ugh, Christ, what is this?” John made a face.

“Strawberry cider.” Harry shrugged and reached over to reclaimed it “Don’t drink it if you don’t like it.” 

“Hey, Harry, I had a favour I needed to ask you.”

“It’ll cost you.” Harry took a last puff from her cigarette before crushing it out on the metal arm of her chair.

“I haven’t even told you what it is.” 

“Oh, go on. WHAT?” 

“I need you to take my owl over the summer. Mum is selling the house, and hasn’t even told Stephen about the Wizarding stuff. I need a place for Simpson to stay while I’m traveling. You don’t need to do much, he can stay in his cage during the day, just let him out at night to hunt . . .” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry waved him off. “Of course. I’ll take your bloody owl. It’ll still cost ya.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Come home for Christmas, John, holidays . . . don’t leave me with them.” Harry’s voice wobbled alarmingly at the end.

“Oh, God, Harry. Of course not. I’ll visit all the time. Shove over you great cow.” John bullied Harry’s legs to the side so he could sit next to her on the chaise lounge. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“It’s just . . . it was always us three . . . against the world. Now Mum’s gone and got a whole new family.” Harry huddled in on herself, looking so small. “Wait until the baby comes. She’ll hardly remember us.” 

“Bollocks.” John declared snagging Harry’s drink again. He grimaced as he took another swallow of the sickly sweet stuff. “We’re a family. We always will be - no matter who else joins in.” 

“Aw, you’re a good one, Johnny.” Harry leaned her head against him. 

“And you’re a tough one, Harry. Tough as nails. We’ll make it. We will.” John patted her back sounding more certain than he actually felt. 

“You’re tough too, John.” Harry said gravely, then ruined the moment by belching horribly. They both collapsed into snorting giggles. 

***

“Get on, Dom, jump for it!” Owen reached out to grab the boy’s hand, hauling him onto the train as it pulled away from the station. 

This was the last Wizard train leaving before tomorrow, and they didn’t wish to spend another night in the little village outside Genoa. It simply wasn’t safe after John had kissed that pretty Witch in the piazza, and her boyfriend, a thick-necked thing with one long eyebrow had taken umbrage. John had knocked him over with a bat bogey hex in the duel that followed, and they’d all run for it when unibrow’s equally surly mates showed up, wands being drawn.

“Merlin’s ballsack, John,” Tom gasped as they collapsed into some open seats. “Can you just not?”

“How was I supposed to know that Mimi was going out with someone? She never said!” John crossed his arms angrily across his front. 

“She had on a huge ring.” Owen brandished his own hand in the air to punctuate his words. 

“Mate, how about you just lay off the birds, alright? I think it will be healthier for us all.”  
Teddy’s hair had gone pure white in the quick exodus from the town, and was just now getting a tinge of colour back to it.

“Yeah, fine.” John slumped down into his seat. “I won’t chat up any more girls. Happy?” 

“Getting there,” Dom said, and hiccupped several ladybirds into the carriage. A hex had glanced off his back during the retreat, and he kept expelling small insects that buzzed about their heads before flying off to find open windows.

After a conductor came around to check their passes, the group lapsed into a companionable slump. Tom, Dom and Owen started up a game of cards while Teddy dozed, and John gazed out the window at the passing scenery. 

They’d had loads of fun on their trip. France had been a whirlwind of sights and Wizard nightclubs in Paris. The mountains and chalets in Switzerland had been beautiful, and they’d eaten themselves silly on crumbly cheese and roast chicken after days of hiking. The only unfortunately incident had been when Owen had stirred up a small nest of Doxy’s in a field and they’d had to apparate away to avoid getting badly bitten. It had taken them the better part of a day to locate each other again. Italy had been warmer, sun-warmed bricks and ruins by day, with wine-soaked nights laughing in open-air cafes after dark.

It was only after John had sworn he’d seen a familiar-looking head of dark curls that disappeared into a crowded farmers’ market in Verona, that he’d gone a bit mad. He’d started pulling everything in sight after that. It was easy enough to lay off the girls. They were so much more complicated anyway. John hadn’t even told his mates about the two boys in the toilets of some half-remembered clubs . . . or the fit, middle-aged man in Florence who John had met on a late-night walk after everyone else had gone to sleep. Alessandro had gotten him back to the youth hostel before everyone else woke for breakfast, begging John to write to him when he returned to the U.K.

It wasn’t as if John wanted to slag his way across Europe, but was it his fault if willing people kept falling into his lap? John raked a hand over his face, somewhat disgusted with himself and settled back for a nap. He swatted away an insect that landed on his cheek. 

“Sorry,” Dom said, hiccupping a fresh round of ladybirds onto the pile of cards.

***

“God, it’s beautiful,” John breathed dropping his rucksack to the sand.

“Lovely, just lovely,” Teddy said.

“I could stay here forever,” Owen added.

“Maybe a month.” Tom smiled.

“Or at least a fortnight,” Dom joked. 

The tan expanse of soft sand stretching out to the bright blue waters was indeed a breath-taking sight. They had followed Mrs. Potter’s advice and made their way to Spain, to Costa de la Luz. Teddy of course coughed up the money to rent a small, tile-roofed villa right on the beach. A Wizard community shielded from the Muggles flourished next to the ocean, and the boys quickly found the best hangouts, a partially-submerged restaurant that served fresh-caught fish right off a pier, and a bar called Marguerite’s with a huge picture of a mermaid over the door and a patio to serve drinks and tapas to people sitting right in the surf. 

They slipped into the rhythm of the ocean, up in the morning to enjoy walks on the beach, jumping in the waves, the cries of the seagulls overhead as they convened for a brunch of bread and cheese before sightseeing in the afternoon, picking a place for dinner, or coming back to the house to scare something up. All the jangle of their real lives, the hustle and bustle of the trip melted away to a soundtrack of rushing waves, and honeyed sunlight, leaving everyone mellow and relaxed like stones polished smooth from the relentless motion of water.

Tom found the advertisement for the underwater tours, bubble spells provided, and they all spent one afternoon being guided by a wiry, dark-haired Wizard hung round with multiple bracelets and anklets who simply introduced himself as Sparky. He led them down under the waves into the quiet blue expanse below, swimming through bright schools of fish and giant sea turtles. They even spied a long iridescent sea serpent that coiled beautifully in the waters as it undulated past them. When a submersible vehicle of some sort bubbled past them, everyone was full of questions. 

“Oh, this is part of the Ocean Institute,” Sparky informed them later. “They study the sea life. They have an aquarium as well. You might want to visit it. It’s over at _Bahía de Memoria._ I hear they have a small leviathan on exhibit.”

That night back at Marguerite’s, their usual haunt now, fruity drinks in tow, John heard about the Ocean Institute again. A group of pretty women out on a hen night moved into their orbit, and the boys found themselves pairing off, chatting them up. John didn’t think he’d broken his promise to lay off the women as the whole group seemed to be sucked into the bright banter of the group. 

John had had his translation spells up and running since they’d taken a portkey into France, but Bianca spoke perfect English, and John enjoyed talking without translation with her. She had long silky brown curls, and flashing green eyes, and she laughed at nearly everything John said. John found himself leaning closer to her without even meaning to, catching the scent of her tropical-smelling perfume. 

Somehow they ended up separated from the group walking along the beach past the light of the torches, John was a bit foxed on rum drinks, and feeling loose and easy. Bianca, led John along, wanting to show him the stars. She had spent time in London and said what she missed most of home was being able to see the stars. They giggled, walking along the surf, letting it lick at their ankles as they carried their shoes in their hands. Bianca wore a short dress, and John had on the cargo shorts he’d been living in for a fortnight. It was easy to link hands, winding their fingers together. They found a place to sit above the tide. Bianca told John about her job, it seemed she worked at this Institute of Oceanography he’d heard of earlier in the day.

“I work with many of the magical creatures of the water. We do research as well as education, and outreach. You’d be surprised how many Magical people who go boating don’t respect the boundaries we have with the Merpeople..” 

“Oh, I heard about it, the Institute. It’s at _Bahia de Memoria,_ that means Bay of Memory, doesn’t it?”

“It does. It’s a bit of a joke. The big saying here is _The ocean has no memory, it washes everything clean._ But of course that is not quite true, eh? We find many memories beneath the waves.”

“That sounds good though, doesn’t it?” John smiled. “Sometimes it would be nice to find a place without memories, a place to just be.” 

“You must come tomorrow, you and your friends to the aquarium. Come, and I will give you a personal tour.” 

They kissed of course, languidly with the rush of the waves in the background before John walked her back to the noise of the bar, and their waiting friends. 

***

Bianca remained serious, following through the next day with a note sent to the villa via owl with five free passes to the aquarium. The lads could hardly turn it down. They apparated along the coast until they found the signs leading to El Acuario de Costa de la Luz, then followed the stream of visitors to the main entrance of the modern-looking building. Bianca met them soon after they turned their tickets in at the front desk. 

“John, good morning. You made it.” Bianca’s white teeth flashed in her tan face, as she smiled first at John then turned to include the rest of the group in her goodwill. She was dressed in a more functional blue robe today, her hair pulled tightly back, but looked none the less attractive for it.

“Yeah, of course. Thanks so much for the tickets, Bianca,” John said with a smile of his own. 

“Yeah, thanks, this looks cracking.” Tom grinned. The others mumbled their thanks behind him. 

“Is there really a leviathan here?” Teddy asked as Bianca led them through the exhibits area to a door marked “solo empleados.”

“There is. It became injured, and in exchange for some medical care, agreed to stay on and be on exhibit through the summer. We do good work here, and the money from the guests who visit the aquarium help fund it.” 

Bianca led them on a behind the scenes tour showing them some labs, the medical treatment areas, and the holding tanks for new or dangerous animals not on normal display. She led them past a tank with an enormous squid, and a tank of eels that shimmered gold and silver as they darted in and out of the rocks and reeds along the bottom. 

“Oh, watch out for the sea kelpies,” Bianca warned as Owen, Tom, and Dom drifted closer to a tank where what looked like two mermaids, their long green hair swinging over their faces and bare breasts lounged over the sides. 

“Come closer, little boy. Come here and let me touch your warm skin.” One crooned deep and low, crooking her finger at the boys while the other preened, pursing her lips suggestively.

Bianca let forth such a torrent of curses in Spanish that the translation spell had trouble keeping up with her. The kelpies thought better of their actions, and flipped back to swim down into the tank. In the viewing window on the side, John could see that the creatures had transformed into something much less pretty under the water. 

“Wretched things.” Bianca shook her head. “We have to keep the single men away from them. They nearly drowned two of our best workers last week. They men were fine, but they quit that day.” 

“Shame they’re so dangerous. I quite fancied the one with the bigger . . . .” Owen cupped his hands over his chest in clear pantomime. 

“Owen, mate, they’d have killed you and eaten you whole.” Teddy shuddered.

“Well, no relationship is perfect, eh?” Owen sighed as the others chuckled around him.

Bianca led them toward a door leading back to the main viewing hall. “I enjoyed seeing you today, but since we are short-staffed, I fear I must cut our tour a bit short. You can visit anywhere else in the open areas you like, and remember the leviathan viewings are four times a day on the half hour.”

The lads thanked Bianca profusely, shaking her hand on the way through the door. John hung back to say good-bye last. 

“Thanks, Bianca , this was splendid, really nice of you.” John dropped a hand to her forearm, and squeezed.

“Of course, I am glad you could come.” Bianca’s smile lit up her face again. “John, I wondered if you might like to have dinner tonight? If you are free?” 

“I’d love to.” John beamed, quickly getting the directions to the place Bianca suggested.

“Good-bye, John. I will see you later,” Bianca said, holding the door wider for him. 

“I look forward to it.” John dropped a kiss to Bianca’s cheek before scooting out, following the lads to a tank of frolicking sea ponies across the hall.

“Smooth, Watson, really smooth,” Teddy teased, elbowing John in the side as he rejoined the group.

“Ah, John got us free tickets,” Dom said. “Let’s not look gift horses in the mouth.” 

One of the sea ponies chose that moment to mount another one right in front of the viewing glass. Several horrified parents nearby covered their children’s eyes and shooed them off to a safer exhibit. 

“Ach, would you look at the SIZE on that thing.” Tom tilted his head to the side to better watch the proceedings. 

“Teddy’s dolphin dick was bigger,” Dom said. 

“OY. Not that again.” Teddy groaned. “How much do I need to pay you lot to never mention that again?”

“How about you buy lunch? I’m sure there’s a café around here somewhere.” Owen glanced about. 

“Fine. Sandwiches and crisps for all, and the dolphin thing never happened.” Teddy crossed his arms with a huff.

“Oh, throw in some chips at least.” John smiled. “Then we can call it a draw.” 

***

Surprisingly, Tom and Dom were the first to go. A decrepit old barn owl wheezed onto their terrace one morning collapsing onto the outdoor table with a letter addressed to the twins. Tom opened it up and read it first, before passing the page to Dom. 

“Well, looks like the party’s over lads. Our da fell off a ladder and hurt his head,” Tom said. “Mum says he’s okay, but she wants us home to help out with the shop right away all the same.” 

“Ah well, we knew it was coming.” Dom sighed looking about at the adobe-sided villa, and the waves gently rolling on the beach beyond. “This was just a lark before the shop swallowed us up again.” 

“Don’t you think you could do something else if you don’t want to work at your father’s shop? Get your parents to just hire more help?” John wrinkled his brow. 

“Ah, it’s Middleston and sons Quill shop, don’t you know? Dad’s just been waiting for us to get done with school and come back to take our rightful place.” Dom looked resigned. “There’s really no choice.”

“It’s not all bad though. We’ve been thinking of doing some ready-made spells and charmed things we might make to sell there as well.” Tom quirked up the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah, there’s some possibilities for growth,” Dom added.

Teddy took the twin’s impending departure as a reason to leave himself. “I need to see my girl.” He shrugged, blushing slightly. “Sorry lads. The house is paid up through next week though. You two can still stay, enjoy the place. We don’t all have to abandon ship.” 

John and Owen saw the lads off to the portkey station in the nearest town, Valdevaqueros. 

“My dear chap,” Teddy said as he bowed politely, taking Owen’s hand. “I’ll see you next at the Ministry, sir.” 

Teddy was taking his place as a junior member of the Aurors division, while Owen would be working as a clerk in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office at the Ministry of Magic. They’d only be a couple of floors apart in the building in a few short weeks.

“Yeah, alright then.” Owen laughed at him, but shook his hand with decorum all the same. 

“Healer Watson, I look forward to remaking your acquaintance in London, my good man.” Teddy reached out to take John’s hand next, clasping it warmly, before he cracked up and laughed.

“Not a Healer yet, mate,” John corrected him, and tugged him into a hug, slapping his back. 

There were long faces and more hugs as they made their final good-byes. It helped that the Spanish were such a demonstrative people John thought. Their little melodrama hardly merited note. The other group bidding someone farewell at the station wept and embraced dramatically as if the man departing were moving to the moon. 

John, Teddy, and Owen had plans to share a flat together in London, and had a few places to check out once they returned home. Tom and Dom would only be a portkey or floo network ride away a bit farther north. It wasn’t impossible that they’d all get together, but it was definitely a breaking up of the old group, the ending of an era. John blinked his eyes to clear them as he gave Tom a final handshake. 

“You’ll send an owl once you two are back?” Teddy asked as those leaving took their places around the walking stick that served as the portkey. 

“Of course, mate. Take care!” John held up a hand in farewell. 

John and Owen stood and watched until the portkey activated and the travelers winked out of sight. As they turned to make their way back to what would undoubtedly be a much quieter holiday house, a thought struck John fully-formed and crystalline in its clarity. He nearly stumbled under the weight of it. _He didn’t want to go back to London._

John felt like an utter coward, but he said nothing to Owen over the course of the next week. He left Owen on his own a few times to meet up with Bianca, and spent an afternoon sending a flurry of letters back to the U.K. at the local Owl Post office, but he didn’t tell Owen his plans until their final night together in Costa de la Luz. They were back at Marguerite’s sitting in beach chairs sipping large fruity drinks and eating fried clams for their last hurrah before traveling back to British soil . . . although that wasn’t completely true . . . when John dropped his bomb.

“Owen, mate, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m not going back to London.” 

“What? What are you on about, man?” Owen squinted at him over his glass. 

“I’ve decided to stay here in Costa de la Luz,” John said.

“John, you’re taking the piss.” 

“Sorry, mate, but I’ve never been more serious.” John bit his lower lip.

“But, but the flat, your scholarship at St. Mungo’s!” Owen sputtered as he pushed more upright in his chair.

“You and Teddy can find a smaller flat, and I’ve already written Mungo’s and declined my space. I’ve decided to take a job at _El Instituto de Oceanografía Mágica._ They needed a few new blokes and Bianca put in a good word for me. I interviewed, and they hired me.” John waved a hand proudly toward himself. 

“Is this about the girl?”Owen’s eyebrows drew down in eloquent dismay. “I mean Bianca’s pretty, but she isn’t worth throwing your whole life away for. John, please, think about this.” 

“Owen, I have thought about it. A lot. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, but things weren’t settled before. Now they are. It isn’t just about Bianca. I do like her, but . . .” John stopped, taking a breath, as he looked out over the rushing waves. He watched the ever-changing pattern of water crashing on the beach, the white foam as the waves dragged back to sea, churning over to repeat again, and again. 

“I can’t go back, and follow this path laid out in some lockstep, preordained plan. I feel like I’ve been going along forever half-asleep and I just woke up.” John took a sip of his drink. “Perhaps I’m not explaining it well, but I have to shake things up, do something different, or I’ll just shrivel up inside. I have do this, Owen.”

“Oh, John.” Owen dropped his head into his palm. “Teddy will kill me.”

Owen tried to convince John to return with him to the U.K. over the course of the evening, but John remaining firm in his decision. They ended up back at the villa passing a jug of sangria on the terrace as they watched the full moon shimmering over the ocean. It left a bright trail over the water that looked completely solid, as if you could step out onto it and walk right off into the horizon. 

“Yer, a bastard, John Watson, a right bastard!” Owen declared tilting the bottle to take a drink.

“I know I am, Owen. I know it.” 

“Where will you stay?”

“Bianca’s cousin has a room to rent. I’ll start out there, and see where things go.” John accepted the bottle when Owen passed it his way. 

“You’ll come back, won’t you John? This isn’t the end of it all, and I’ll never see you again?”

“Of course it’s not the end, Owen, lad. It’s just the beginning.” John filled his lungs with the salty tang of the sea air and grinned. “Just the beginning.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who have stuck by me with this story, encouraging me to keep chugging on. Cheers, and chilled glasses of sangria all around! We've only one more chapter to go after this, lovelies!
> 
> ***
> 
> I do so love me some Spanish guitar so in the spirit of this chapter, here's a lovely song to listen to as we contemplate John moving to Costa de la Luz -[Tides of Eden](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DBfopLnhSK4) by Johannes Linstead. Also, don't worry, there's light at the end of the tunnel for John and Sherlock! (promise!)


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decides a life back in London is the one for him after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my betas, otp21b and the-navel-treatment, for their help with this. It's been a journey, but we are finally at the end.
> 
> ****
> 
> Salud to you, dear readers, and I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have bringing it into the world!
> 
> ****
> 
> Since we've had John in Spain, I've been listening to Spanish guitar almost obsessively. Here's another song that is just divine - ["Marisi" by Cantoma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FsJjgLaWU0s) to accompany this last chapter!

***

John squinted into the sun at the large white stork struggling against the wind over the beach. “You’re a bit late aren’t you, luv?” John muttered to himself watching its progress. The storks generally finished their migration south by the end of May, but this one seemed to have waited, tarrying well into the summer before starting off. John could sympathize. The andalusian beaches were lovely. It was hard to leave them even when you knew it was time to go.

John ignored the strong gusts ruffling his clothes and hair to continue his trek along the water line. This was a particularly beautiful, and often deserted stretch of coast – one of his favourite places for solitary walks on his days off. The sandstone cliffs that bordered the beach kept away all but the most determined of Muggles, leaving the Wizarding community to enjoy it in peace, apparating in and out with ease.

John shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and touched the letter folded there, the one waiting for a reply. He continued on until he reached an outcropping of rock, finding a nice flat spot to sit sheltered from the wind. He settled, watching the relentless motion of the waves. A moment later, suddenly too warm in the absence of the breeze, he bent forward to tug his tee-shirt off. He relaxed back again, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the pleasure of the sun warming his exposed skin.

The letter in his pocket felt weightier than a folded slip of paper ought to. He still had a decision to make, and he needed to make it soon. John couldn’t believe it had been two years since he’d first come to southern Spain, he and his mates jumping drunkenly about in the waves. Where had the time flown? He didn’t regret it though, not a bit. His time spent on Costa de la Luz had been amazing. Lately though, things had started to grow a bit predictable at work. John glanced down wryly at the latest set of marks gracing his arms, lashes from a demon ray gone into a frenzy. Everyone at work knew, if they had a dangerous animal to wrangle, Watson was the man to call. 

John chuckled. Bianca didn’t tell him the institute had been so quick to hire him because none of the locals wanted the dangerous job. Still, it had suited him, something he could throw himself into. Bianca on the other hand wasn’t something he could throw himself into. They’d decided fairly early on that they made better friends than lovers which turned out to be a good thing. His lovers had come and gone, but Bianca had remained a steady presence in his life. There’d been a flurry of girls after Bianca, and then a boy. Raphael had lasted the longest, dating John for six months before he had broken things off just a few weeks ago. John shook his head at himself. It seemed he could pull just about anyone given half a chance, but he didn’t have a knack for getting them to stay. Honestly, there wasn’t much tying him down at the moment he thought as he pulled an apple from his back pocket and crunched into it. He finished it off in a few bites, tossing the core into the waves.

When John grew light-headed from sitting in the sun too long, he stood, tying his shirt about his waist to walk back along the surf, enjoying the cooling spray. Even in summer, the water remained chilly coming in from the depths of the Atlantic. He stopped, shielding his eyes against the glare to look out over the rippling expanse of water. The ocean had such moods, sometimes angry, sometimes peaceful, and sometimes, like today, simply restless, pounding, pounding always pounding itself against the shore. Watching the tide move made John feel both part of something big and on-going, and incredibly small at the same time. After a few minutes, he pulled his shirt back on, and turned, apparating back home.

***

_“Juan, Buenos dias!”_

_“Buenos dias!”_ John waved at Ángel, and Felipe, two of his co-workers, as he pushed through the employee’s entrance of the institute. He looked about enjoying the way the wide windows drenched the bright blue walls with morning sunlight. It truly was a beautiful place, and he’d enjoyed his time here.

John quickly donned his work gear in the men’s locker room - a teal scuba suit - and set about making his rounds, checking on the various new animals, jumping in for a quick swim with the ticklefish after spelling a bubble over his head. They were affectionate things, and seemed to thrive on the staff’s attentions, swimming around and over John, trailing their long soft fins across him in caresses that did, as their name promised, tickle. It was near noon when John finally had a free moment to change back into a dry robe, and stop by the director’s office for a chat.

Consuela Garcia was a small dark-haired woman with a powerful voice that seemed as if it should belong to someone twice her size. She oversaw the public aquarium side of the institute with a velvet fist, always ready to compliment a job well done, but taking no slack in keeping the place humming smoothly along. 

John knocked on her half-open door, waiting to hear a “puede venir” before pushing his way into the brightly-decorated office. 

_“Ah, Juan, cómo estás?”_ The director smiled at him over her desk.

 _“Muy bien, gracias.”_ John smiled back. “Mrs. Garcia, do you have a moment? I don’t want to interrupt if you’re busy.”

The woman pushed the papers she’d been looking at aside. “Budgets, always the budgets. Nothing that I can’t be tempted away from for a few minutes.” She sighed. “Come, tell me what is on your mind.” She pointed John to a nearby chair. “I always have time for you, dear boy.”

"I had some news," John said simply, unfolding his letter and pushing it across the desk toward the woman. She glanced over the page, reading for a moment . . .

_“From the offices of St. Mungo’s Hospital_  
_Dear Mr. John Watson,_  
_Our records indicate that you were selected for a full scholarship to our Healers’ Training Program in 2015, and declined the offer. Due to unforeseen events, we find ourselves with a number of vacancies in our program this year. We wished to contact you and ask if you might reconsider your interest in attending our institution. While we are unable to offer a full scholarship, we have partial . . .”_

Mrs. Garcia’s gaze swept back up to John’s face. “Oh, you are leaving us.” Her mouth dipped down at the corners.

“I’m not sure.” John shifted in his seat. “I mean I enjoy working here very much, I’m not sure if I should . . .”

“Go. There is no question. Go.” The woman waved his words aside with a decisive hand chop.

“You’re certain? I thought you were pleased with my work here . . .”

“Juan, I am very pleased with your work, but you are too good to stay working as an animal handler at an aquarium for much longer.” She sat back, pinning John with her gaze, her dark eyes flashing. “This is a good opportunity for you, and you must take it. You would be a fool not to.”

“Alright,” John said, sucking in a breath. “I guess I’m giving my notice then.”

“We will miss you.” Mrs. Garcia smiled. “But this is the right thing for you now. Surely you must feel this is so in your heart.” She reached up to thump a fist over her chest.

“Yeah, I guess I do. I’ll stay through the end of the month.”

“Good. I wish you the best of luck. You will make a very good healer.” Mrs. Garcia left her chair to clasp John’s hand. “I have a feeling about these things.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Garcia, I appreciate it.” John smiled up at her.

John broke the news in the employee lunchroom later. He was gratified to see that most of his co-workers seemed sad to hear the news. They threw him a party his last week filled with balloons and musicians at a local restaurant, Café Azul.

“Juan, good luck in Great Britian. Try not to bed everyone there right away,” Ángel called over the table.

“Yeah, Three-continents Watson, you need to leave room for everyone else to have a chance.” Felipe chimed in.

John blushed at the nickname. Once, John had joined people from the institute on a trip to Tangier to meet with the staff of a fellow Oceanic institute in Morocco. When John had woken up one morning in a strange hotel with a horrid hangover, and three of the hosting staff of varying genders in bed with him, his fame had spread. His co-workers dubbed him with the embarrassing title, and sadly it had stuck.

“Yeah, cheers, Felipe.” John raised his beer in the man’s direction. “I’ll try to control myself.”

“John, you will write to me, yes?” Bianca leaned in to take hold of John’s arm with two hands, shaking him slightly. “You will not forget your old friend, Bianca, when you are back in London?”

“God, Bianca, no. How could I ever forget you?” John freed his arm to sling it around the woman’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze. 

She had been a good friend, indeed. He’d cried on her shoulder a number of times when his latest love affair had fallen apart. She'd told him his heart was too soft to be such a rake.

“It is right that you should go home.” Bianca nodded. “You will be closer to your family. Family is always the most important.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” John agreed, shrugging.

He had only been back to the U.K. a handful of times since signing on at the institute. His mum had given birth to his new sister, Olivia, last year, and he’d traveled home to meet her, as well as making it back for various holidays, Christmas, his birthday in the summer, and such.

Harry had been livid, but his mum had been oddly supportive about his time in Spain. “You have to do what you feel is right, John. Go out, go out and grab life while you can.” She had smiled, looking exhausted but triumphant with the new baby in her lap.

“Thanks mum.” John had been glad of her support. He thought not for the first time that his mum would have made an excellent Gryffindor if she had been born to the Wizarding world.

It was odd still keeping his whole life a secret from his mum’s new husband, Stephen, and his family. It made his mum happy though so John kept filtering whatever he said to them. He’d even rented a post office box in the Muggle side of Valdevaqueros so his Mum and Harry could write him without needing owls.

Finally the time had come to go. John walked through his flat one last time. He’d cleared things out, mailed a box to his Mum and Stephen’s place, and sent his owl, Simpson, to fly on ahead to stay with Harry again for a few days. He’d come across odd things as he’d packed up. It was amazing what you could accumulate in two short years. 

He’d found a scarf of Raphael’s on the floor of the cupboard. John remembered a holiday they’d taken in Gibraltar in the early spring. Raphael had worn the scarf, whipping about in the breeze the day they’d stood looking down at the strait that divided Spain and Africa. Raphael had grinned in the sun looking devastating.

Raphael worked as a librarian. John had met him at the aquarium, after he’d been showing off for the visitors, swimming about with the squidiphants. John had of course struck up a conversation. He’d been drawn to Raphael’s good looks right away, but it had been his wicked, dry humor that had made John ask him out. Of course he’d bollocksed it all up later as he always seemed to do. He forgot important events, left work late too often, and when Raphael suggested moving in together, John had balked.

“A relationship is not just one person!” Raphael had tossed off angrily as he’d stormed out John’s door for the last time.

John sighed and dropped the scarf into the give-away pile. It would do better at a charity shop than cluttering up the few bags he planned to take away with him.

Finding things of Sherlock’s had been even harder to deal with. Even after he thought he’d purged it all, John still found a letter Sherlock had written jammed into the back of a book as a page marker, and a photo of the two of them at Sherlock’s graduation of all things. 

Sherlock looked sulky but pleased as John leaned in to kiss his cheek at their dinner at the Golden Goose. Mycroft must have mailed it to him ages ago. John kept them both, sticking them back in the book and tossing it into his suitcase.

John spent his last night in Spain on Bianca’s sofa. He came bearing boxed tea, tinned soup and jars of jam he hadn’t manged to use. Bianca parked John on a stool with a glass of wine in hand while she cooked dinner. He’d offered to help, but she shooed him aside in favour of doing it her own way. Things clattered about the kitchen with each flick of her wand as good-smelling things bubbled on the hob.

“Bee, I’m sorry we never worked out.”

“Silly man, of course not. I’m on to you.” Bianca turned to shake a finger John’s way. “If we had been the passionate lovers, it would be have been, what, good for a month or two and then pffft.” She made a sound as she kissed her fingers, then flung them outward. “It would be over. This way I can keep you.”

“You’ve sussed me out.” John laughed and took a sip of wine.

When things were ready, Bianca waved the platters of food to the table, and with glasses of wine in tow, they settled themselves down to eat.

“Oh, Bianca, this is incredible.” John moaned around a mouthful of mussels, tomatoes, and rice.

“Thank you. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. You won’t get paella this good in London,” she boasted proudly.

“You won’t get ANY food this good in London,” John said forking up another bite with completely different flavours.

Bianca glowed at his praise. “I will come visit, and make it for you. It will be good to have someone to stay with when I want to see London again.”

“Any time.” John smiled. “You’ll always be welcome.”

“So, will you look him up when you get to Britain?” Bianca looked at John over the rim of her glass.

“Who?”

“Sherlock. He is British, yes? The one you talked about so much?”

“To be honest, we didn’t part on good terms.” John reached for his glass and took another swallow. “He was in Germany last I knew. I don’t even know where he is right now.”

“Oh, but you will be too busy charming the pants off everyone you meet anyway.” Bianca dropped a wink.

“No, definitely not.” John shook his head. “I’m swearing off relationships for awhile. Going to concentrate on my studies.”

“Good for you. Oh, we will miss you here, John.” Bianca poured more wine in their glasses before raising hers for a toast. “To new beginnings, and old friends.”

“Salud.” John smiled and lifted his glass to clink against hers. Something warm leapt in John’s chest at the thought of being in London to stay by tomorrow. The beaches had been a gorgeous, and the aquarium had been fun, but in the end it had felt like he was living someone else’s life. No longer. Home, he was finally going home.

***

John brushed off his robe as he stepped out of the floo network and into the busy lobby of St. Mungo’s. He stopped a moment to take it all in. Quite a motley of people waited to see a healer. One woman sat whistling like a tea kettle, and you couldn’t miss the man with a large purple tentacle growing where his left ear should be. Despite the crowded waiting room, the man had a corner all to himself as people kept well clear of the waving appendage. Through it all, the hospital staff moved quietly, efficiently about in official green healers robes bringing order in their wake. John grinned at the sight. He couldn’t wait to join their ranks.

It might be two years delayed, but he was finally taking his place along with twenty other new healers-in-training on Monday. The student dorms were a madhouse of noise and random magic going off in the hallways. It was almost like being back at Hogwarts with so much raw energy contained in one place. John hoped he might be able to move out and get a flat of his own soon, but London was expensive. Teddy, Owen, and Victoire had found digs outside of town, but it wasn’t big enough to add John in, and he wanted something closer to central London anyway. Maybe he could find a flatmate who wouldn’t mind his coming and going at all hours? It was worth looking into.

“John.”

John turned to see the pleasant, round-faced fellow headed his way.

“Mike,” John said, reaching out to shake the man’s offered hand. 

“Come on, I’ll show you around, let you see where you’ll be working.”

Mike Stamford was the junior healer assigned as John’s mentor. John had liked him upon meeting him at an orientation session the day before. He has a solidness about him that was quite soothing. Mike led John through some double doors and into the warren of back rooms in the building. They made a trip through A & E, outpatient services and the pharmacy before fetching up at the potions workrooms. 

“We could definitely use another hand in here with the potions. There’s always something that needs stirring or cleaning. With your good marks in potions, this will be easy-peasy stuff, but we’ll work up to the more tricky projects later.

“I’m looking forward to it.” John smiled.

Mike opened a door, and motioned John to go before him. John stepped forward, glancing about at the glassware, the potions in progress and the Wizard in a dark robe in the centre bent over a bowl, intent on the green drips falling from the pipette in his hand. Through a glass window, John could see a second room with more potions bubbling away and a few people moving around. John glanced back at the stranger in the room, and stopped breathing. 

It couldn’t be Sherlock. It absolutely couldn’t be Sherlock . . . it was Sherlock. _Oh my God._ The world suddenly tilted on its axis. John reached for something to hold onto before he fell over.

Sherlock glanced briefly up at the sound of their entrance, did an almost comic double take, and froze, his mouth caught in a perfect O. Mike bumped into John who had suddenly become a statue blocking the doorway.

“Oh sorry, sorry.” John stepped further into the room to let Mike pass, his heart beating out a crazed tempo.

“Yeah, that’s our main potions workroom through there where we brew the standard fare.” Mike waved toward the windows. “In here is where we make our more experimental things, brew the dangerous potions. The walls are reinforced with protection spells. Oh, and this fellow is Sherlock Holmes. You’ll see him from time to time if you work in here.” Mike spoke amiably as he swept a hand to indicate the Wizard in question. Sherlock stood up straight, and swallowed, his prominent adam’s apple bobbing in the smooth column of his throat. “He’s not properly at Mungo’s but he borrows space here for his experiments.” Mike grinned, oblivious to the tension that had suddenly filled the room. “Sherlock this is John Watson, he’ll be starting as a healer-in-training this week.”

John had almost forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was. Pictures simply didn’t do him justice. His dark curls had grown longer since John had seen him last, but his aquiline nose, his pale angular cheekbones, and those multi-coloured glass eyes were achingly familiar. John felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

“We’ve met.” Sherlock said simply. John felt that rich baritone slide right down his ear canals sending goose bumps up the back of his neck.

“Oh, of course.” Mike nodded. “It’s a small world, innit? We Wizards all seem to know each other, especially around London.”

“Yes.” John cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders to stand taller when every impulse was screaming at him to go curl up in a ball somewhere dark and quiet. It physically hurt to look at Sherlock. “We were at Hogwarts together.”

“Yeah, I had a few years at Hogwarts with his brother, Mycroft. We’re all in each other’s back pockets aren’t we?” Mike chuckled. “Well, John that’s about all I wanted to show you today. I can leave you two to get reacquainted. So, I’ll see you here on Monday, alright?”

“Yeah, okay.” John wanted to beg Mike to stay, but he simply nodded, watching as the man clapped him on the arm and made his exit.

“John.” 

John swung his eyes back across the room. Sherlock’s robe was the deepest black, and it made his natural paleness look almost ethereal in the indoor lighting. His penetrating gaze bore into John, no doubt cataloguing everything about him. Nothing for it, John dredged up some of the old Watson courage. He stepped forward, pasting a friendly smile over his stiff lips. “Well, fancy meeting you here. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. As Mike said, it’s a small world. Look, you needn’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way . . .”

“John, it’s good to see you. You look well.” Sherlock’s face had gone smooth and composed, though his eyes remained active, darting back and forth over John’s face.

“Thanks.” John wasn’t sure where to put his hands. They naturally wanted to drift up, push back the one dark curl that had fallen over Sherlock’s forehead, touch his cheek, slide around to cup the back of his head and tug him down for a kiss . . . John ended up shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

“You look . . . good as well.” Actually, now that John was closer he could see that Sherlock actually looked quite exhausted. He was thinner than John liked to see, and his face had a weary cast to it. But still . . . _Sherlock,_ God. 

“I didn’t realize you were back in England,” Sherlock blurted out in a rush.

“You knew I wasn’t in England?” John countered, surprised.

“I bump into . . . mutual acquaintances from time to time, and . . . hear news of you.”

John immediately began sifting through a list of people they both knew who might be leaking information about him to Sherlock. Why hadn’t he thought to ask someone to do the same?

“So you . . .” John started. “You’re back from Germany, then?”

“Yes.” A wry smile tipped the side of Sherlock’s mouth. “I disappointed them all by returning to England as soon as my internship was over. I found a position with Madame Maelstrom here in London. She’s . . .”

“A top potion master in Britain, yeah, I’ve heard of her. Good on you.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock flushed, and for a moment he looked so small and uncertain, so achingly like John’s old Sherlock that it was all John could do not to haul him immediately into his arms.

“So what brings you to St. Mungo’s?” John asked rocking back on his heels, reminding himself that this was a Sherlock he really didn’t know at all.

“I do a good bit of my own potion work at home, but I’m not set up for brewing anything sensitive there. Borrowing space here is a suitable alternative . . . we have an understanding.”

“Ah, well I hope you’re not working too hard. Need to factor in time for sleeping and eating too.” John meant to tease, but it came out sounding like a scold. Something flashed in Sherlock’s eyes, and John felt that he had overstepped the rules of whatever this was. “Look I don’t mean to keep you, I’ll just be . . .”

“Actually I haven’t been working at all recently. I just returned from time in France,” Sherlock said in a rush.

“Erm, I . . .”

“Grand-mère died last week.” 

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” John pulled his hands free, and made an involuntary step toward Sherlock, but stopped himself at the last moment.

“I know you didn’t know her very well, but I thought you might like to know.”

“Yeah, no. I really liked your grandmother, I’m so sorry.” John raked his fingers back through his hair. “Philippe, how is he taking it?”

“Philippe actually passed away three months ago. I think it’s why Grand-mère succumbed so quickly. She didn’t want to stay here without him.” Sherlock dropped his eyes to his hands now gripping the sides of the counter.

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Listen, do you want to go grab a pint? Talk for a bit? I mean if you aren’t busy. I don’t mean to overstep.” John sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I don’t know how to do this. If this isn’t right . . .”

“No, please. I’d like that.” Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes flicked back up to meet John’s. “I can finish up here right now if that suits.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” John stepped away, licking his lower lip, running his hands down his healers’ robe. He watched Sherlock as he cleaned up. Christ, the man moved like a dancer just walking about tidying a workbench. John swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. God, he’d missed him. How had he forgotten what it was like to be in the presence of Sherlock Holmes? John wanted to lunge forward, pull the man into his arms and squeeze as tightly as he could, never let go. He curled his hands into fists to keep them to himself. John nodded slightly. He could do this, he could keep himself in check, and be a friend in need.

Sherlock finally turned, finished. “I know a nice pub. It’s hard to get to though. It would be easier if you just side apparated with me rather than trying to follow my directions.”

“Alright,” John said. The ghost of a smile crossed both of their faces. John had never enjoyed side apparating.

Sherlock stepped closer, extending his arm. As John reached out, Sherlock’s sleeve fell back, and he ended up wrapping a hand around a lean forearm instead of the dark fabric he was expecting. A shiver of electricity danced up John’s spine at the skin on skin contact. He looked up and fell into the blue of Sherlock’s wide-open eyes. It was like flying without a broom, John thought, simply tumbling into the bright sky with no end in sight.

“John.” It was a plea choked from the back of Sherlock’s throat.

John dissolved. The next thing he knew he was in Sherlock’s arms, their mouths moving heatedly together as if they were trying to drink each other down. 

“Merlin, John.” Sherlock gasped against John’s lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He repeated, his hands clutching at the back of John’s robe. 

Whatever Sherlock was sorry for, John was right there with him. John backed Sherlock up until he had a workbench behind him, and pressed in, slotting them impossibly closer together. “God, Sherlock, Sherlock.” John chanted his name as though it were a prayer, cupping Sherlock’s face between his palms, laying kisses over every inch of his precious face. 

Finally they stilled, John’s face buried against Sherlock’s shoulder as they caught their breath. John’s insides felt as though they had gone completely molten. “God, Sherlock please tell me you aren’t with anyone.”

Sherlock drew back, gulping. “I’m not. And Bianca, are you still with . . .”

John huffed a laugh. “How do you know about Bianca?” He shook his head. “No, I was never with Bianca. I was with someone, but we broke it off before I moved . . .”

“I kept tabs on you. I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock blushed hotly. “I know I had no right to, but I had to know about you.”

“Oh, God. Sherlock, look at you. I can’t believe it’s really you.” John struggled to draw in a good breath.

“I know, John . . . “ Sherlock smiled, a wild hopeful thing when John looked back up. “Do you still want that pint? I can take you to the pub, but I’ve got some wine back at my flat . . .” Sherlock trailed off still a bit unsure.

“Oh, God, yes.” John breathed.

“Good, hang on.” Sherlock licked his lips. John wrapped his hand over Sherlock’s arm and nodded. He felt the familiar lurch, as the man stepped forward and pulled John along.

John was surprised. Now that he knew how to apparate himself, it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. They landed rather softly on a rug in a living room. John had a fleeting glimpse of armchairs before a fireplace, papers scattered everywhere, and then he had an armful of curly-headed genius, and more heated snogging, and the scenery fell away. 

“I have the wine . . .” Sherlock started as John mouthed at his neck.

“Forget the wine. Bed.” John growled against him.

“Oh, yes.” Sherlock gasped, and maneuvered the two of them still kissing madly down a corridor and into a bedroom. They broke apart for a moment. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” Sherlock looked chagrined as he gestured at the unmade bed and clothes heaped over the floor.

“Don’t care. Come here, you.” John pulled Sherlock down onto the bed with him, and lost himself in long limbs, burying his face in Sherlock’s curls to draw his scent deep into his lungs. It was like the first good breath of oxygen after an eternity spent thrashing under water. 

“I missed you. God I missed you.” John whispered.

“John. John,” was all Sherlock could say in response, half insensate.

They stripped annoying layers of clothing off as quickly as they could to get to each other. Finally bare, they surged close. John groaned as Sherlock slotted against him. It was so familiar. It was as if no time had passed since they’d last held each other like this, and yet it had been forever. John ran his hand down Sherlock’s back, mapping the bump of each vertebrae, relearning the topography of his love. John discovered a tattoo inked over Sherlock’s bicep, a little bee. He made a small sound of wonder as his fingers traced over it. The bee fluttered its wings. John bent down to press his lips to it.

“This is new,” he murmured.

“I’ve had it for awhile.”

John cut his eyes back up to Sherlock’s face and froze. Suddenly it felt like so much had happened since they’d last been together, a veritable chasm of life lived between then and now. They weren’t those silly schoolboys joined at the hip anymore. Would this even work, this second chance? The smile on Sherlock’s face slid away as John continued to stare.

“Sherlock . . . I . . .” John’s heart seemed to be lodged in his throat. He struggled to find words, but nothing would come.

“John,” Sherlock said simply, and lifted John’s left hand, kissing over the small scars, the red lines lacing up his forearm. When he’d finished, he started on the right one. Each press of his lips was like a benediction, like a healing for every hurt that had been etched into John’s skin while they’d been apart.

Sherlock turned his molten eyes John’s way, and John found himself falling into them once more. He fumbled, hauling Sherlock blindly closer, hungry to taste his lips again. Then it was simple, the simplest thing in the world to find their way back to each other again. Later, much later, they lay pressed together, legs entwined just breathing as they watched the light in the room slipping away into evening.

“John, I’m so sorry. I can hardly ask you to forgive me.” Sherlock spoke so quietly against the top of John’s hair. “But I hope you do. I have so many regrets about what happened. I’m sorry I left you.”

John pulled away, moving until he was propped against the headboard, putting a little space between them for this conversation. He let his hands dangle loosely between his knees as he took a deep breath. “Sherlock, why? Can you tell me why? I’ve wanted to understand what I did wrong for so long.”

“Oh, John, you did nothing wrong. That was part of the problem. I didn’t feel like I deserved you.”

“DESERVED? Deserved had nothing to do with it. Christ, Sherlock, we promised to be there for each other.”

“John, I truly am sorry. I started using jezaweed in small doses to stay awake for longer hours at Herr Moser’s. Everyone at the workshop was so much more experienced than I was, I felt like I needed an edge to keep up.”

“You were using CRUSH? Sherlock that is more addictive than opium.”

“I know. I thought I could handle it. It was a bad trade-off though, focus and more energy, for an increasing dependency. I started needing more and more of the stuff just to keep going.”

“Galen . . .” John trailed off.

“He was my dealer.”

“Yeah, I’d suspected as much.” John pressed his lips together.

“Mycroft cut off access to my money when he found out what was going on. He had spies watching me all the time.” Sherlock huffed a sad laugh. “He paid the rent for my new flat, and set up accounts at stores and restaurants around the neighborhood. Otherwise, I was skint.”

“That wasn’t right for Mycroft to do that. GOD, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was embarrassed, John. I was so disgusted with myself.” Sherlock paused, bowing his head to mutter toward the mattress. “I started trading sex for jezaweed from Galen.”

“Oh God, Sherlock, no.” John reached for Sherlock but stopped himself as a terrible thought took him. “Did he hurt you?” The words fell hard as stones forced through John’s clenched jaw.

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “He never forced me to do anything I wasn’t willing to do. He was actually quite kind in his own way. I think he fancied himself in love with me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, if only you’d told me, we could have worked on it together. I’m all in, through thick and thin, you have to know that.”

“I’m sorry John. What can I say? My head wasn’t in a good place at the time. I’d convinced myself that you’d be better off without me, better finding someone less broken to be with.” Sherlock swallowed wetly.

“Never.” John breathed. “There is never going to be anyone for me but you.”

Sherlock made a helpless sound at the back of his throat, as John scrambled down to haul him flush against his body. John held him while he wept, making shushing sounds as he rubbed circles over Sherlock’s back. “I love you, God, I love you,” he whispered against the curls at Sherlock’s temple.

“John.” Sherlock managed to get out before John’s lips were back on his and they were falling into each other again, burrowing under the covers, the world narrowing down to a universe of two measured only in aching touches, and the sweet noises of passion.

Night had fallen proper when they finally stumbled out of bed for a shower. Sherlock did a fancy bit of magic and expanded the shower giving it extra nozzles so they stood in a waterfall of spray together, soaping each other’s backs and hair with ease. 

“You lovely thing.” John pulled a slippery Sherlock closer to run an appreciative hand down his lean form. “GOD, I missed that arse,” he growled cupping a handful.

“John, I missed your everything.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled like blue gemstones, and John couldn't help pulling him even closer. They wrapped their arms tightly around each other, snogging until the water ran cold. 

“I’ve nothing in. Can I take you to dinner, John?” Sherlock asked almost shyly as they dried off with towels in the steamy bathroom.

“God, you can take me anywhere.” John smiled, punch drunk on having Sherlock there, really there before him. He reached up to tousle Sherlock’s curls fascinated with how they sprang back into shape as they dried. 

“This flat is in Muggle London,” Sherlock said securing a towel around his waist. “I got a good price for it as I know the landlady. There’s any number of good restaurants nearby we could choose from.”

“How do you know a Muggle landlady?” John’s hands dropped to Sherlock’s hips, tugging him closer.

“She’s not actually. Mrs. Hudson is a Squib, distant relative on my mother’s side.” Sherlock waved a careless hand. “What are you in the mood for? There’s a nice Italian restaurant around the corner, Angelo’s. I think you’ll like it.”

“Alright. As long as you’re there, it’ll be the best place ever.”

“John. You’re being silly,” Sherlock half-scolded him.

“Mmmm.” John moved in to drop little kisses on the bee tattoo wandering up Sherlock’s arm. It seemed to be playing a merry game of chase, daring John to follow. John happily followed it up Sherlock’s shoulder and over to his chest. When it landed on Sherlock’s left nipple, John moved in, laving over them both with the flat of his tongue.

“Oh.” Sherlock groaned from from deep inside his chest. John could feet the vibration under his tongue.“Oh, John stop. Stop or we won’t make it to dinner, and I know you’re hungry.”

“I’m hungry for you,” John mumbled against Sherlock’s skin, continuing to lick.

“John. Your stomach’s been growling for over an hour, and I don’t have any food in the flat. Let me take you out, please. I want to.”

John finally stopped, lifting his head at Sherlock’s entreating tone. “Alright, love, no worries.” He let the little bee flutter back to its usual place along Sherlock’s left bicep.

“Why did you get this? It’s adorable.” John couldn’t resist reaching up to tap it a last time, watching as it flickered its wings cheerfully at him.

“I got it about a year and a half ago. I’d moved in with Irene, and Mycroft had relented and given me access to my funds again. I’d managed to quit Galen, and I’d slacked back on my drug use considerably, but Irene convinced me to quit completely. We both took a week off to stay with a friend of hers, in the country and I went cold turkey. Her friend kept bees, and I sat and watched them all day long, fascinating creatures. I got the tattoo soon after to celebrate getting clean.” Sherlock glanced down, turning his arm to see the tattoo himself. “Plus it made me think of those mad bee pants you got me all those years ago.”

“Oh, love. You are a marvel. I’m so proud of you.” John folded Sherlock into an embrace. He had to blink eyes gone suddenly misty as he squeezed Sherlock tight.

“John. It’s good to have you here. I missed you.”

“I missed you more,” John said. When his stomach gave a loud rumble, Sherlock gently untangled them.

“Come on, let me take you to Angelo’s and feed you up.”

“Alright.” John grinned ear to ear. “I’d like that.”

They dressed in Muggle clothes for the outing. Since John had only come in his healer robe, with a vest and leggings underneath, Sherlock used his wand to resize some of his things for John to borrow. John was very interested in how Sherlock looked in his Muggle jeans, and had to admire them for awhile, before they finally made it down the stairs and off out. They held hands all the way to the restaurant, and the small Italian man who showed them to a table looked beside himself with joy to meet John. 

“Come, sit here. Let me get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic!” The man crooned.

“Well, he likes you.” John laughed as the man, Angelo as it turned out, scooted off to grab the candle and menus.

“I did him a favour once . . .” Sherlock shrugged before Angelo swooped back in to grasp Sherlock by both his shoulders, and shake him.

“This man, this wonderful man, he saved my brother’s life. You eat here for free, you and your date.” He released Sherlock with a final squeeze as he nodded toward John. “Order anything you like on the menu. I make it myself.” 

“What did you do?” John asked when they had placed their orders and were left alone with large glasses of wine.

“Angelo’s brother and I were both here eating dinner one night when the man choked on a fish bone. I acted as though I were pounding him on the back, and I waved my wand under the table to clear his airways.” Sherlock waved a careless hand. “It was nothing really.”

“Well, not exactly nothing, obviously.” John tilted his head to better regard Sherlock’s lovely face bathed in the warm light of the candle. God he was a beauty. “You know earlier when I said I was proud of you for getting clean. You realize though I’d be proud of you no matter what, yeah? You’re amazing.” John leaned in to take Sherlock’s hand on the table.

Sherlock blushed hotly. “Thank you, John. I’m proud of you too. I’m so glad you’ve decided to finish your training to be a healer. Not that you didn’t do well at El Instituto de Oceanografía Mágica, but this seems more you.”

It was more than passing strange to hear the name of the institute tripping off of Sherlock’s tongue. “About that.” John cleared his throat as he sat back. “Who were you getting information from? How did you know I was in Spain and about Bianca?”

“Well, I did bump into your friends Teddy Lupin, and Owen Walker occasionally. They hardly wanted to tell me much about you, I gather they were none too happy with me, but . . .” Sherlock trailed off looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“What is it?” John laughed picking up his glass for a sip. “Tell me.”

“I spied on you.”

“What?” John nearly dropped his wine. He set it quickly down on the table.

Sherlock squirmed in his seat. “I spied on you. When I got myself sorted out, I wanted to see you again. You were on holiday with your friends, but you had my stuffed bat in your rucksack. It had an old tracker spell on it that I simply reactivated. Mycroft used to steal the bat and hide it from me as a game.”

John was near speechless. It took him a moment to make his throat work. “Verona. I thought I saw you in a farmers market near Verona. The lads thought I was mad when I told them.”

“That was me.” Sherlock looked guiltily down at his lap. “On my days off from Herr Moser’s I would take a portkey near wherever you were, and apparate to follow you. Once you’d almost caught sight of me, I started wearing disguises, charming my appearance.”

“Sherlock.” John had to clear his throat. “WHY didn’t you contact me? Let me know you were there?”

“I was terrified.” Sherlock raised his gaze to John, his eyes gone huge. “I was certain you never wanted to see me again after how I treated you. When you landed in Valdevaqueros, I gathered my courage to approach you, but you’d already taken up with that woman, Bianca. She looked so nice, so normal, I couldn’t . . . I just wanted you to be happy, John.”

“Did you come again after that?” John hated to ask, but he had to know.

“Several times.” Sherlock nodded. “I saw you saying good-bye to your friends Teddy and Owen at the portkey station in town. I looked like middle-aged man that time. I accidentally saved a small child from drowning on the beach that afternoon, and her whole family insisted on feeding me and seeing me off at the portkey station. I pretended I needed to go to London just to see you up close.”

“Sherlock.” John had to drop his face into his hands to take a shuddering breath. “When else? When else did you come?”

“A dozen times at least.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“I know. I know it was mad behaviour, the purview of the stalker, but I would come once a month or so, and check up on you. I couldn’t help myself. You were always dating someone new, but you’d go back to Bianca in-between, and you looked so fit, and tan, and healthy. I didn’t want to bollocks it up, drag you back down into my madness.”

“And I never noticed you? Not once?”

“You did smile at me once when you were feeding the sea ponies. I was cloaked as a ginger-haired girl. I decided after that to appear as elderly, nondescript people. I didn’t want you . . . smiling at me . . . if it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John groaned. “Did it never occur to you to speak to me, you mad tosser?”

“I tried once.” Sherlock looked horrible. “You were with a man, he was gorgeous, like something out of a painting. I’d seen you with him several times before, but you snogged him madly at a table in restaurant before getting up to use the loo. I lost my nerve.”

“Raphael,” John said sadly.

“I didn’t come after that. Philipe passed away, and then Grand-mère grew ill. I spent all my free time visiting her in France then. John, I haven’t seen you since the spring.” 

“Bloody Christ, Sherlock. I haven’t seen you since GERMANY. Since bleeding two and a half years ago. I can’t, I just can’t.” John scrubbed at the pain building between his eyes.

“You’re angry,” Sherlock said in a small voice.

“Angry? ANGRY doesn’t BEGIN to cover it,” John said so loudly several nearby tables glanced their way in surprise. John reigned in his volume with a concerted effort. “Sherlock, I fucking died the day you walked out on me,” he hissed. “I went out with all those people, slept around like an idiot because I missed you so fucking much I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t fair to them, to any of them. I tried to tell them I wasn’t interested in anything long term. How could I be? My heart was smashed into bits. I’m lucky that Bianca and I managed to stay friends as I seemed to fuck up everyone else I came in contact with.”

“John, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock looked about to cry. “I ruined it before, and now I’ve ruined it again.”

“No.” John shook his head. “No, I’m angry. I’m allowed to be angry, but you haven’t ruined anything. You aren’t running out on me again. You’re stuck with me, do you hear that, Sherlock? Stuck.” John reached out to take Sherlock’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“John.” Tears overflowed Sherlock’s shining eyes, leaving trails over his cheeks.

“Come here, you.” John scooted his chair even closer, ignoring the rest of the restaurant to half pull Sherlock into his lap with his embrace.

They parted awkwardly when the waiter arrived with their food.

“Yes, the carbonara is mine.” John muttered as the man set their plates on the table.

They managed to tamp it down after that, chatting amiably over the wine and bites of pasta. John realized how much he had missed this, simply talking with Sherlock. They chatted about John beginning at St. Mungo’s, and Sherlock’s job at Madame Maelstrom’s. Unlike Herr Moser, she didn’t maintain a storefront, and Sherlock generally had evenings and weekends free for his own experiments. 

Sherlock shyly asked John if he would consider moving in with him. “The flat isn’t much, and I only have the one bedroom free, I use the one upstairs as a work space . . .” Sherlock trailed off looking embarrassed.

“Sherlock, are you kidding? A cage at the zoo would be nicer than the student dorms, but even that would be okay if you were there.” John smiled. “Love, I want to be wherever you are, and your flat looked lovely. The little I saw of it earlier. Of course I liked what I saw of you there earlier too . . .”

Sherlock flushed happily, and scooped up John’s hand again to press a kiss to the back of it. “John do you want to order pudding . . . “ He let the question trail off.

John licked his lips. “I think I’d quite like to go home instead if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened as the side of his cupid’s bow mouth tipped up. “Why Mr. Watson, I don’t mind at all.”

They thanked Angelo for the delicious dinner, waved off his offers of dessert, and escaped back into the cool of a London night.

“God, I can’t believe how much I missed this, hearing people speak English around me.” John smiled happily looking around them as they walked back to Sherlock’s flat, fingers entwined between them.

“I agree. It’s good to be home.” Sherlock smiled softly.

They hardly made it through the front door before they began tugging each other’s clothes away.

“Shh, stop, my landlandy,” Sherlock warned as they left off to make it up the stairs, and shut the door to the flat firmly behind them.

They tumbled kissing into Sherlock’s bed to make love in a frenzy as if there were no time to be lost. 

“Sherlock, promise you won’t leave me again, promise,” John gasped out, eyes screwed shut, holding Sherlock as tightly to him as he could manage.

“No, John, never. Never again.”

“Who’s my kitty, who’s my good kitty?” John growled in Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock nearly choked, so quickly came his release. John followed shortly thereafter, falling apart spectacularly in great heaving cries. It was as if a flood-gate long sealed shut had burst free, and John sobbed open-mouthed against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock petted over him, soothing him with those long, elegant hands.

“Shhh, who’s my good man? You are.” He crooned against John until he finally settled and they fell asleep, exhausted, pressed together.

***

John woke in the light of day, muzzy, confused for just a moment at where he was. He glanced over at the pillow next to him, and sucked in a breath. It hit him all over again. Sherlock Holmes lay in the bed next to him, snoring slightly. John could hardly believe it. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. God knows he’d had that dream before. He reached over to lay a hand lightly on the jut of Sherlock’s hip just visible through the covers. Thankfully, the lump felt very real, warm and solid. A smile unfurled over his face. He leaned in to nuzzle a kiss under Sherlock’s ear, and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

“SHIT.” John cried bolting upright.

“Wha? Whazzit?” Sherlock struggled up to his elbows blinking blearily at John.

“Oh buggering hell! I’m late.” John leapt naked out of the bed to dive into the piles of clothing tangled over the floor.

“John, it’s Saturday,” Sherlock complained, squinting to bring the clock in focus. His dark curls stuck out madly around his head making him look like a drunken angel.

“Yeah, well, healers-in-training don’t get weekends free,” John said tossing things aside in his mad scramble. “I have an orientation meeting in ten minutes. WHERE are my clothes?”

Sherlock peeled the covers back, and joined John squatting on the floor. Rather than tackle the main pile, he worked his wand from the trousers he’d had on the night before. “Accio John’s clothes.” He said with a quick wave.

John’s healers’ robe, socks, and underthings worked their way from wherever they had landed and wriggled through the air to Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock waved his wand a second time over the clothes, muttering a cleaning charm. Wrinkles and stains smoothed themselves away in a blink.

“Jesus. Thank you, Sherlock,” John said, accepting the clean things, tugging them on as quickly as he could.

Sherlock crossed the room to a chest of drawers, and pulled out a pair of clean pants that he stepped into. He turned around as John finished pulling his robe over his head.

John froze. “I have to go.”

“Yes, so you’ve told me.” Sherlock cocked his head.

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock’s mouth did a funny little wobble. “I don’t want you to go either, but it’s alright. We can meet up later. I presume they won’t keep you around the clock.”

“This is barmy. I’m afraid to say good-bye.” John ran a hand back through his hair. “I have this terrible feeling that once I go, I’ll realize I hallucinated this whole thing.”

“John, come here.” Sherlock opened his arms and John walked into them. “If you dreamed this, then we’re dreaming it together.” They stood for a few minutes simply holding each other close. “When do you think you’ll be done?” Sherlock finally murmured into John’s hair.

“It’s a busy day, but a short one. I should be done by tea. Say around five?”

“Good. I’ll meet you in the lobby of St. Mungo’s then. I can help you move your things from the dorms.”

“Yeah, alright.” John drew in a deep breath. “God, you smell so good.”

“Mmm, as do you.” Sherlock dropped a kiss to John’s forehead. John refused to leave it just as that, and pulled Sherlock down for a proper snog that left them both quite breathless.

“I’ll see you this afternoon.” John took a deliberate step back.

“I’ll be there.” Sherlock’s eyes were nearly incandescent. “Count on it.”

John raised a hand in farewell, and made himself turn and apparate off before he could pull Sherlock back to the bed, and have his way with him for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

“Huh, it’s a party.” John worked a card from the envelope that an owl had dropped on their breakfast table not a few minutes before. 

“Whatever for?” Sherlock folded down a corner of the Wizarding World News he was reading to better peer at the mail in John’s hands.

“Oh, you know, eat nibbles, drink too much booze, mingle with people.”

“I know what a party entails, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What party, with whom?”

“Looks like some big do the Ministry of Magic is throwing.” John read over the invitation.

“Ew, is this Mycroft’s doing?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I specifically told him he could piss off until hell froze . . .” Sherlock reached over to snatch the card from John’s hands.

“No, hang on, I wasn’t finished with it.” John leaned back out of Sherlock’s reach to flip the card over and read the back. “Nope, not Mycroft. It looks like Teddy and Owen sent it. They were told to invite friends and family to this big social thing – the Autumn Ball.”

“Ugh, some horrid PR event. Not interested.”

“It is not just a PR event. It’s a chance to see people. I’d really like to go, and I’d like you to come with me. Besides, Teddy’s an orphan, Owen is Muggle-born, and most of Victoire’s family already works at the Ministry. They don’t have that many other people to ask.”

“Fine, I’ll go. I’m not sure your friends want to see me again though.” Uncertainty flickered over Sherlock’s beautiful, angular face. “They don’t like me.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John blew out a breath. “My friends don’t dislike you, they just need to get to know you again. Plus . . . they were worried about me. . . . I wasn’t quite right after we broke up.”

“John, I am sorry about that.” Sherlock looked so suddenly contrite that John had to lean across the table and drop a kiss to the end of his nose.

“Water under the bridge, love. I know. Still, party, I’d like to go?” John raised his eyebrows, awaiting a reply.

“Fine, alright.” Sherlock huffed. “Is it formal wear?”

“Um, yeah, it says dress robes. I’m sure we can scare up something from your cupboard." John smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock disappeared behind his newspaper again.

John gathered his used dishes to drop in the sink. They both only had a few minutes before they had to dash off for the day. Sherlock generally apparated to work, but John needed the floo network to travel to busy St. Mungo’s.

“Bye, love.” John bent down to press a last kiss to the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I’ll see you late tonight. I’ve got a double shift.”

“Oh, in that case, I’ll need a better good-bye than that.” Sherlock dropped his paper to push back from the table. Turning, he pulled John over to tumble into his lap.

“Wha . . . “

Sherlock slipped a hand up to cup the back of John’s neck and pulled John into a kiss that was positively toe curling. He tasted absolutely delicious, like milky tea, and early-morning Sherlock.

John moaned into the onslaught, feeling all the blood traveling to parts south, something that was not at ALL conducive to starting his workday. He tried to resist, but Sherlock locked his arms, redoubling his efforts to snog John’s brains into a puddle. After thoroughly plundering John’s mouth, Sherlock moved to kiss over his jaw, diving down to mouth at the sensitive skin of John’s throat. “UUuunf, Sherlock, have to go.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said finally pulling back. He let a hand slip down to give John’s bum a healthy squeeze before releasing him. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Git.” John struggled to his feet. He sucked in a good breath, willing himself to calm.

“Idiot.” Sherlock countered. “Go save some lives.”

“More like go listen to some boring lectures, and tidy some rooms after.” John smiled as he staggered to the fireplace, catching up his bag. “Bye, Sherlock.”

“Good-bye, John.” 

“St. Mungo’s staff entrance,” John said in a clear voice as he threw a handful of powder into the fireplace, and stepped carefully inside.

When John finally had a moment for a lunch break, he took a sandwich to eat outside, and thought back to Sherlock’s words. He had to admit Owen and Teddy hadn’t been overly welcoming to Sherlock when they’d met up together for a pint at a pub a fortnight ago. The ex-Gryffindors had launched off, talking about Victoire’s new dream job as a beater for the Holyhead Harpies, and how all their favourite teams might do that year. Sherlock perched at the end of the table sipping at a single glass of ale, and nodding occasionally. John had been so happy catching up with his friends, he hadn’t much noticed at the time. Looking back though, it couldn’t have been a nice time for Sherlock. John sighed.

“Hey John, is this seat free?”

John looked up to see Usha, a fellow healer-in-training standing with a tray. “Yeah, be my guest.” John smiled as he pushed the other chair at his table out for her.

“Thanks.” She dropped onto it with a sigh, reaching to open her bottle of juice. “Can you believe that test on infectious hexes yesterday, what a nightmare, right?”

“Oh, I know, Merlin, what were they thinking? If they didn’t want to scare us off first term, you think they’d go a bit easier.”

Usha laughed, and they talked easily as they ate lunch together before needing to clean up, and dash to their next thing.

***

Large colored lamps glowed around the walls of the banqueting hall rented for the party. Guests continued to arrive from the large fireplaces set at either end of the long room. The room was a festive chaos of burbling voices, clinking glasses, and the swirl of bright robes of those gathered moving about the space in shifting patterns.

Sherlock looked simply amazing. Despite his reluctance to attend the event, he’d put on his loveliest dress robe, a dark midnight blue affair with Celtic knotwork embroidered in silver down the front. He’d tamed his curls with a delicious smelling product that had John leaning in repeatedly to take a sniff. “I could eat you up,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.

They both felt a bit on eggshells from the night before, and John hoped that the party would make up for it, blow some of the cobwebs away. Harry had come by for dinner, and after drinking up all the wine she’d brought, had turned on Sherlock, saying horrible things she wouldn’t even remember later. In a dark, slurred voice, Harry had blamed Sherlock for breaking John’s heart and driving him away, telling him he didn’t deserve to be taken back in. John went ballistic in return, yelling at Harriet, threatening to toss her out on the street on her drunk arse if she didn’t shut the hell up. Sherlock had calmed them both down, and put Harry to bed on the sofa with a light sleeping draught and hangover cure. She’d been red-eyed and contrite over eggs the next morning, hugging John tearfully goodbye at the door.

“Thank you, John. You look quite edible yourself,” Sherlock returned, dropping a kiss to his cheek.

John didn’t think he looked half as good as Sherlock, but he’d worn an older maroon robe of Sherlock’s, charmed to fit, slicked back his hair, and felt presentable enough for public. He scanned the crowds for people he knew, and smiled as his friends came into view.

“Oh, look, there they are.” John pulled Sherlock along to join Teddy, Owen and Victoire waiting for a buffet table, ignoring the slightly disgruntled people in the queue behind them

“JOHN,” Victoire squealed, hugging him as tightly as she could.

“VIC! It’s so good to see you. Wow, great game, last week. You lot really trounced Romania. I caught a recording, you did some amazing broomwork in that!”

“Thanks, John, thanks so much.” Victoire stepped back, grinning ear to ear. John smiled too, noting that he had to tilt his head back to meet her eye. She’d actually grown three inches since he’d seen her last. He was pleased when she turned to give Sherlock a hug too, and John saw she didn’t look so tall next to him. Christ, but he was a gorgeous long drink of water.

John greeted the rest of them. Teddy slapped him on the back, looking good in his Aurors’ black, and Owen introduced a pretty, shy-looking woman with long dark hair beside him as Rhea. “She moved here recently from France.” Owen informed everyone proudly as if he’d had something to do with it. Sherlock greeted her in her native tongue, and soon the two of them were nattering away in French, her shyness falling away.

They were seated around a table together, a few drinks in when Teddy leaned over to John. “So Johnny, are you sure about this? Getting back with Sherlock? I mean things went pretty tits up last time you two had some troubles.”

“God, Teddy, don’t start. I already got an earful from my bleeding sister, Harriet, okay? People make mistakes, you move on. I mean how would you feel if you and Vic broke up and then she wanted to try again. You’d do it. You know you would.”

“That’s different.” Teddy frowned.

“How is it different?” John demanded.

“Well, Vic and I never had problems like that. I got to see you blind drink and near drowned as a rat, and then shagging your way across Europe last time he took off, didn’t I?”

“GOD, TEDDY, SHUT UP ALREADY!”

“DON’T BLAME ME FOR SHERLOCK BEING A COMPLETE ARSE, JOHN!”

Everyone at the table swiveled to stare at them.

“Teddy, you big git, how much have you had to drink?” Victoire peered at him.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and dropped to John’s glass clearly asking the same question.

“All’s I’m saying is things got tough, and Sherlock faffed off, and there we were trying to put John back together. I don’t think anyone wants to see that again.” Teddy huffed angrily but at a lower volume.

“Ugghh.” John dropped his forehead into his palm.

“Teddy’s right. I was an arse.” Sherlock reached over to scoop up John’s free hand. “It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, walking out on John Watson. I hope he’ll let me spend the rest of my life making it up to him.”

“Oh, come here, you,” John groaned leaning over to pull Sherlock into a kiss.

“Teddy, why don’t you say such sweet things to me?” He heard Victoire complain as they parted.

Rhea looked completely confused until Owen bent over to whisper something into her ear.

“Well, enough of that,” John said raising his glass. “To old friends, and new beginnings.”

Everyone raised their glasses, touched rims, and cheered before draining their drinks. Talk meandered over safer territory until a band started up and dancing began.

“Come on, Teddy, you promised you’d dance with me!” Victoire pulled her boyfriend up from the table, looking eagerly toward the dance floor. 

“Yeah, come on Teddy, I don’t want to be the only idiot out there.” Owen said helping Rhea from her seat.

“Fine, fine.” Teddy grumbled good naturedly, allowing himself to be led along.

“John?” Sherlock’s eyes held such a naughty twinkle as he held out a hand that John almost suggested bypassing the dance floor to find some nearby cupboard, but they made it out to the dance floor to join their friends.

They twirled about moving to the beat, and John couldn’t imagine feeling happier. He laughed out loud when Sherlock spun him into a dip.

When the first song wound down, Sherlock leaned in to ask by John’s ear, “Fancy a drink?”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you.” John nodded, and they pushed their way toward the bar together.

Halfway there, the crowd parted somewhat and Mycroft Holmes glided through, a smile that was most likely meant to be charming stretched across his face.

“Merlin’s arse, I knew I smelled too much smug in here,” Sherlock snapped. “How’s the diet going, Mycroft, you look like you’ve gained three pounds.”

“Lost several actually, thank you.” Mycroft raised an imperious eyebrow.

“Mycroft, it’s good to see you.” John reached out, nudging Sherlock slightly to the side to shake Mycroft’s hand.

“John, always a pleasure. So nice to see someone here who remembers their manners.” Mycroft couldn’t seem to resist sending a pointed glance in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

“Mycroft, I was terribly sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a wonderful woman. I’m glad I got a chance to meet her.”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft visibly softened. “Thank you.” Mycroft nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Someone jostled behind Mycroft, and he turned to greet them.

“Sorry they didn’t have pinot noir at the bar, I hope merlot is okay.”

“Thank you, Gregory, this is fine.” Mycroft accepted a wine glass from their new companion with a surprisingly gentle smile.

“Professor Lestrade!” John was taken aback to see the man here.

“John, it’s good to see you, though it isn’t ‘Professor’ anymore.” Lestrade leaned forward to shake John’s hand before slipping his arm around Mycroft. “I’ve a job at the Ministry these days. It turned out to be the only good way to see this one on a regular basis. I think we’re ready to announce it. We’re getting married in December.” The look he shot Mycroft was pure heat. Mycroft simply melted under it in reply.

Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Ah, well, congratulations,” John managed.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, turning his attention back to John. “And congratulations to you as well. I heard you’ve just started at St. Mungo’s. I’m so glad you decided to finish your studies.”

“Yes, I got a little sidetracked, but it seemed like the right time to start over.” John nodded, reaching back to find Sherlock’s hand. He gave it a little reassuring squeeze.

“That’s great.” Lestrade smiled “So, have you had a chance to speak to . . .”

At that moment an older Witch in a hat simply dripping with feathers and rhinestones bustled in at Mycroft’s elbow.

“Oh Mr. Holmes, forgive me I don’t mean to intrude, but I saw you, and I simply HAD to come and thank you.” She grabbed Mycroft’s hand to pump it vigorously up and down.

“Ah, there’s no need . . .”

“No, it was very generous of you to increase your gifts to St. Mungo’s. Oh, how impolite of me, I’m Penelope Murthwaite.” She nodded, introducing herself to rest of the group. “I chair the Board of Trustees at St. Mungo’s, and we were SO thrilled when Mr. Holmes decided to double his donations to the hospital this year.” She swung back to address Mycroft. “I couldn’t help noticing, Mr. Holmes, that you’d specifically involved yourself with choosing a recipient for the training program scholarships several times now. I simply wondered if you might like to become a member of the scholarship committee on a more permanent basis?” She waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Mycroft looked as if he had swallowed a flaming toad. “No, I’m sorry, dear lady, I’ll have to decline your generous offer, this was for a special case only. Thank you for stopping by, but please don’t let me keep you from all the other people surely expiring for want of a chance to speak with you.”

John’s mouth fell open as he watched Mycroft expertly shooing the woman along. Sherlock froze, stiffening into a board beside him. One glance at Lestrade said it all. The man looked guilty as hell.

“John, I’m so sorry . . .” Greg Lestrade began.

“It was rigged,” John said, waiting as all the wheels of his mind turned, grinding along to spit out the appropriate conclusion. “I was never meant to get that scholarship, and the fact that they offered it again two years later. Well, I thought it was a bit dodgy, but it seemed so good at the time.” John dropped Sherlock’s hand to wrap his arms over himself. He felt a wave of cold sweeping over him.

“No, John it wasn’t like that. You WERE the best student in my Potions class, and I put your name forward fair and square . . .” Lestrade sputtered.

“Only for Mycroft to step in and eliminate the possibility of John receiving an award based on his own merit,” Sherlock countered, voice gone icy.

“Would you have come back to London otherwise, John?” Mycroft had successfully moved the woman along, and returned to swing his hawk-like focus to John’s face. “Wasn’t your original plan to study healing at St. Mungo’s? Did I do so wrong in helping you achieve the goals you yourself had set?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed. “That isn’t the point and you know it. The world is not your personal chess board to . . .”

“Will you excuse me, please?” John felt that the walls had suddenly gone too close. “I think I need some air.” John pushed blindly through the crush of many-coloured robes in the room heading toward one of the tall glass double doors leading outside.

Gratefully, he pushed through onto a small unoccupied balcony enjoying the immediate gust of cool night air that greeted him. John moved to the ornate balustrade, leaning himself against it to face the dark of the garden beyond. He drew in deep lungfuls of rich, leaf-scented air, and felt a measure of calm returning. Bloody Holmeses. He stiffened when he heard the click of the door opening briefly and someone slipping outside.

“John?” A tentative voice sounded behind him.

John ignored Sherlock to continue gazing out over the half-visible shapes of the trees and bushes hulking down in the dark around them.

“John, do you wish to be left alone?”

John didn’t look Sherlock’s way, but he held an arm out, beckoning in obvious invitation. Sherlock slid in beside him, laying his long, pale fingers to grip the ledge of the railing.

“John, I’m so sorry, I had no idea that Mycroft . . . “

“Shhh. It’s alright. I mean it’s not alright,” John said shaking his head slightly, “but I understand. You didn’t know. It isn’t your fault.” 

“I know but if I hadn’t involved you . . .”

“Sherlock, stop, really. Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

Sherlock nodded somewhat miserably, and held his tongue.

John reached an arm around Sherlock’s waist pulling the man closer. Sherlock relaxed against him, tilting his head to rest on top of John’s crown. They stood quietly, John simply enjoying the contrast of having a warm Sherlock on one side, and the cool of the night on the other.

“Do you know what I keep thinking about? What I wish I hadn’t done?” John asked at length.

“No, what?” Sherlock’s voice was a rumble against him.

“Those heartstone bracelets you bought for my birthday. When you sent me your half, I took them both and chucked them into the lake at Hogwarts. I couldn’t bear to see them anymore. Later though, I really kicked myself. I would have liked to have kept them.”

“Merlin, John I’m an idiot. Worse than an idiot, I’m so sorry . . .”

“No, it’s okay. That part is done.”

“I’ll get new bracelets,” Sherlock said in a rush. “I’ll go out first thing tomorrow . . .”

“No, love, no.” John chuckled as he turned to face Sherlock, one hand rising to cradle the side of his cheek. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. I don’t need another heartstone. I’ve got the real thing now, I’ve got you.”

“Oh, John.” Sherlock flowed down into him, their lips connecting in a fiery kiss that went on and on. Vaguely John heard someone open the door behind them, and discreetly step back closing it again.

When they finally surfaced, they remained close, arms wrapped around each other as they breathed together for a few more quiet moments.

“I could murder a cigarette.” Sherlock sighed.

“God, I want another drink,” John said. “Let’s not though. Mycroft is on a diet, you say?”

“He generally is,” Sherlock mused. “Sadly, he grew quite fat as an adolescent, before he began watching his weight.”

“Let’s go find some really massive pieces of cake, and eat it where he can see.” 

“Mycroft prefers chocolate,” Sherlock offered.

“Ooh, I saw some brilliant multi-layer thing with cherries on it earlier.”

“Perfect.” Sherlock’s nearly feral grin caught the light from the ballroom behind them.

John took Sherlock’s hand again, giving it a squeeze. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“I know. I love you too, John. So much.” 

“Good.” John nodded, tugging Sherlock gently back to the balcony doors, toward the noise and heat of the party, and their friends somewhere inside.

 

~ THE END ~


End file.
